At the end of the day
by gypsy rosalie
Summary: They argue about the most trivial of things. She lectures him about morality, he hides money in the teapot. But they're happy, and Heaven knows they deserve to be after all they've been through. Set years after the show finishes. Joey/Martina.
1. Prologue: At the end of the day: 1995

**Disclaimer, because that'd better come first: I don't own Bread, I'm just playing around with Carla Lane's creations for the fun of it.**

**Well. Where do I start with this very confusing fic? I suppose to start off with, so it makes sense, all of it is set after the show (however, I'm still writing it with original Joey in mind. Just am.) Lots of references, both to earlier and later episodes of the show. I'm very, _very_ sketchy on series 7 so it may end up that it's AU in some respects, if I've forgotten some important detail. If so, forgive me. **

**It's sort of a fix-it, an attempt to make Joetina canon, I suppose, by acknowledging their canon relationships (and then setting about dynamiting them. After all, there was no guarantee they were going to last after the show, was there? *evil smirk*). **

**The other thing that should be noted about this fic is it's not going to be told in chronological order. This means that some things which may seem a bit confusing or random at times will be explained later in the fic, which ironically might be earlier in the story, if you get my drift, and the aim is that when you come back to the first chapter after having read the others, it all makes more sense.**

**I know exactly how many chapters this is going to have ( less than 10) and just to be extra cruel, how Joey and Martina _actually_ got together is going to be saved for the final chapter.**

******Some of this chapter was inspired by a conversation I had a while back with slenderpanda597, about how Joey and Martina would act if they were married.**

**One last cautionary message before I get on with it: this fic has some fluffy moments, but it will get very, _very_ angsty, especially in some chapters. Ye hath been warned.**

* * *

**Prologue  
****At the end of the day  
****1995  
**_She lectures him about morality, he hides money in the teapot. But they're happy, and Heaven knows they deserve to be, after all they've been through._

_~X~X_

Joey awakes only three hours after he went to sleep, grey light streaming in through the window and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

'Mmf. Not yet.' He buries his face in his pillow, pulls the silk sheets up around his neck, only to have them ripped off again.

'Come on. Up.'

Joey groans. 'I'm asleep.'

'Clearly you're not.'

'Hnn.'

Sharply: '_Joey._'

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, which seem to weigh tons and drag his whole face down. Good night, though. Just like the good old days, before the tax man and the organic business and all the mess that he's got to show for the last few years of his life. He's made a fairly large bundle of cash- his Mam would be proud. Still contributing to the family pot, even though he's left home, and even though it's not a chicken-shaped dish he's depositing it all in now, it's a…

'I've made you a cup of tea,' a warm mug is pressed into his hand, and he pauses with it halfway to his mouth. Oh, no.

'Kind of you, sweetheart,' he smiles guiltily, knowing what's likely to come next. She's found it.

Martina lowers her face to his, and through his sleep-blurred eyes he can read the slight hint of amusement mixed with whatever emotion it is that compels her to lecture him. Joey pretends to be extremely interested in his beverage, putting his finger through the curls of steam that issue from it with faked fascination.

'Remember yesterday, when we had that talk?' her voice is dangerously sweet.

'Vaguely,' he mutters.

'That talk about things we discussed _not_ doing?'

'Perhaps,' he reaches sleepily for her, catching her face in his hand, 'but how about discussing things which are perfectly acceptable,' he kisses her, 'like this.'

'Mm,' she laughs, her face inches from his, but it's still quite a fatalistic sound. 'Don't try and distract me. You know it doesn't work.'

'Is this about why I came home so late last night?'

'Oh, no. I know where you were.'

Without meaning to he spits tea all over the bedspread. 'You do?'

_Now_ he's wide awake.

'I know _everything.'_

'I am merely tryin' to keep you in the lavish manner to which you have become accustomed, sweetheart.' He grins brightly- or as brightly as he can when he's still weighed down by lack of sleep and has the feeling he's in for it.

'Oh, don't do that face. I don't want to hear yer excuses at this time in the mornin'. Besides,' a wry smile, 'I've always known what you get up to. If that were the issue, we'd have had this conversation a year ago.'

Joey counts back. 'You've known since the beginning?'

'Course I have.'

'And you never mentioned this because…?'

'Oh, I liked to let you think you were bein' clever and enigmatic.'

'But I _am_ clever and enigmatic.'

'If you say so, dear.' She shifts closer, wraps her arms round him.

'But we're strayin' away from the _point_ here, Joey. Regardless of what_ heinous_,' (she drags out the word) 'way you earn your money…' the falsetto voice is back; he can tell she's revving up to whatever she wants to tell him off about.

He swallows the dregs of his tea, sensing what's coming and bracing himself.

'Now look, for the purposes of this conversation, I don't care how you come by all this cash- but for all our sakes, _stop_ hidin' it in the teapot! I stewed eighty pounds this morning!' She slaps a mushy wad of paper into his upturned palm, and Joey stares forlornly at what remains of the fruits of his efforts last night.

Every now and then, this will happen. Stashing money in a porcelain receptacle is a habit he can't kick, along with saying 'greetings' and hesitating every time he passes a leather coat in a shop, all of which irk her. It's ingrained so deeply into him that Martina, no matter how sharp the scalpel of her lecture, can't cut it out.

Deep down, though, he doesn't think she wants to. He knows that snarky smile of hers too well, has burned it into the back of his brain, has mapped it out over the parchment of his mind and his affections. She might pretend she's cross, but it's all put on. Joey's little habits are endearing to her, really, just as hers are to him.

They're happy.

They bicker night and day about the most trivial of things. She disapproves of his work, his dress sense, his deliberately obnoxious sense of humour. He teases her, coaxes her, gets ticked off when she makes a snide joke about the family one too many times. They argue as a matter of routine.

But they're happy.

And Heaven knows they deserve to be, after all they've been through.

* * *

Martina, Joey thinks, must be the strongest woman he's ever met, and he admires her for it. There have been years of a dead-end job, years of abuse and stress and utter boredom that have stretched ahead of and behind her both, surrounding her, walling her in. There have been years of games lost, and she always the pawn taken a few spaces from the end of the board, always coming away worse for wear. There have been years of hopelessness, of total resignation to a fate she doesn't deserve, where she's persevered through the mires of relationships doomed to fail for mere perseverance's sake, because she is as amazingly stubborn as she is strong, and she won't give in until it's clear cut, one hundred per cent certain all hope is lost and there is no other choice. But then she'll never go back to it.

It's not that she never grumbles. She does, frequently. She can protest the unfairness of it all just as loudly as the next person. But for all that, she doesn't let it break her. She fights back with everything she's got, she rarely cries, and when she does she's still not to be pitied. She'll still rip your head off if you so much as insinuate she's weak.

It's this amazing strength, above all else, that Joey first fell in love with. It's the way she picks herself up and puts herself back together that commands his utmost respect. He's seen her do it, watched her reconstruct her iron mask before his very eyes, and it's a wonder that rivals even the pyramids in his mind.

And somehow, amongst all this, she's come to be his strength, too. Throughout all the strife and woes, the legal messes and moral tangles which have seen his own family look at him in disapproval, she's been quietly there. Her sternness is the perfect complement to his recklessness. Many's the time it's all gotten too much, and the temptation to just drive away to the middle of nowhere and stay there has been enormous, but her deep-seated realism has grounded him, her forceful reminders that running and hiding won't do anyone any good have spurred him to stay, to face up to the problems that crash into him head-on. She's held him up through the worst of the worst.

And though she can look after herself, can remain standing through her own torrent of troubles, he stays close by to steady her when she wobbles.

And when Joey wakes in the night after a poignant, painful, Roxy-flavoured dream, tears uncontrollably, wantonly streaming down his face, she's there, a hand on his shoulder and a pair of lips at his ear, a few choice words bringing him back from the past to the here-and-now. And when Martina tosses and turns, moans in her sleep, undoubtedly battling her own past demons again, she needs only to open her eyes, see him beside her and she visibly relaxes. He doesn't speak, doesn't touch her to offer comfort, because she doesn't need it, doesn't want it. His presence is enough to settle her, to give her the little boost she needs to calm herself down.

She is stubborn, though. As he's said, as amazingly stubborn as she is strong. Perhaps more. She's _unbelievably_ stubborn, and her strength can sometimes be her downfall, because she takes it to extremes. Martina's best weapon is not-caring, or pretending not to, and she acts as though being steely and stone-hearted is the best way to avoid heartbreak, as though she doesn't need anything or anyone, ever.

But Joey's stubborn too, and determined to drum into that pretty head of hers that she can rely on him, and though she won't openly admit it, she's learned to…eventually.

They both have their share of misery and heartbreak, and it still eats away at both of them from time to time, but they see it through together, and that alone is enough for them to justifiably say that they are happy.

* * *

'You're a bit late, aren't you?'

'_Greetings_, Adrian!' Joey says cheerfully, ignoring the nag. 'And how does this fine day find my most cherished and beloved siblings?'

'Don't talk like that, Joey,' Nellie reproves, 'you're beginning to sound like yer Dad.'

Joey takes no notice. Anything anyone says makes Nellie think they're 'turning into their Dad', especially now they're all off and out in the big, bad world without her guidance, save Billy. Jack's only over the road, of course, with Leonora, Adrian's only a few streets away- so they're both still where she can keep an eye on them- and Aveline, being married to Oswald (although Nellie still has some reservations about him, being a vicar and all) is reasonably safe, so, naturally most of these accusations are directed at him these days.

He sits down in his usual spot, grins at the others, and then drops a ten pound note into the waiting pot, remembering recent events involving teapots with a smirk.

'Prayers,' says Nellie, and off they go as always.

It's a tradition- every second week, come rain, shine, sleet or snow, the five Boswell siblings cancel all their engagements and return to the fold for Sunday lunch. They leave their respective partners and children behind- this is an immediate-family only affair- and talk and laugh and throw cash in the pot and say prayers, a replica of the old days before they all got lives and families of their own. Nellie counts down the days, they all know it, and serves up enough food for a group twice their size, which means they always have to cast lots for who takes the leftovers home with them. (Joey and Billy always lose when they argue about it, Billy because he still lives at home, and Nellie'll make him something new tomorrow anyway, and Joey because of the offspring that have flown the nest, he lives the furthest away and has the smallest number of mouths to feed- just his and Martina's.)

'You know, I was reading this article in a psychology magazine…' Adrian begins as they dig into the food.

The others clang their cutlery down.

'What are you doin' reading psychology magazines?' Jack demands. 'You're the poetic one. You only read things to do with breezes and open skies, all in rhymin' couplets…'

'A person can fancy a change now and again, can't they? I can have different kinds of intellectual stimulation occasionally if I want. I do have A-levels, not forgetting.'

So does Martina, Joey thinks, but she doesn't use big, fancy, ridiculous words like 'intellectual stimulation' all the time. Well, not unless it's during an argument she's trying to win.

'So what was this article about then, son?' he inquires.

'It was about positions of power in relationships- you know, quite a large number of men these days prefer being in relationships where the women wear the trousers, so to speak. If what the article says is true.'

'What d'you mean, they like women with trousers?' Aveline is totally confused. 'Oswald prefers me miniskirts…'

'No,' says Adrian, 'not actual _trousers-_trousers. It's _figurative_.'

'Ooh, I can't stand all these big words. You only use them so you sound like you know more than the rest of us.'

Sometimes Joey thinks Aveline might have a point, but he doesn't voice this opinion out loud.

'What it _means_,' Adrian clarifies, annoyed now, 'is that in a lot of relationships nowadays the women are more dominant. It's got nothing to do with the actual clothes- it's to do with who has the power, who does what who says, that sort of thing.'

Nellie scoffs. 'All rubbish, this power and psychology stuff.' And Joey, Jack, Adrian and Aveline all look at each other, because in her and Freddie's marriage, it's quite obvious who, out of the two of them, is the dominant one.

'Julie sometimes wore these little silky trousers,' Billy supplies, missing the mark as always. 'They had this drawstring at the top, and they were a sort of pink colour…they made her look _fat_.'

'There's a perfect example for you, Adrian,' Jack says. 'They've been divorced five years at least, and he still can't get her out of her head. She _owned _his mind, did Julie!'

'_No,'_ Billy says, 'I've had other girlfriends since Julie.'

'And none of 'em have lasted, have they?' Jack's clearly enjoying this. 'Connie was the longest. Then Imogen- a month, wasn't it?- Abigail, a record with eight days, Saskia, and then, let's see, Cynthia…'

'So I've had a lot of girlfriends, what's that prove?'

'You can't make it last, because you're still thinkin' o' Julie, that's what it means! Because when you were together you were under her bloody thumb!'

'I did 'ave a _child_ with her, you know!'

Some things haven't changed. Some things never will. Billy's rapid journeys to his feet every time he finds some comment or other outrageous are a thing which will transcend time until the end of his days.

'Yeah, and you 'ad to do it all her way, didn't you? The Christening, the wedding, all the clothes Francesca got when she was a lit'le girl…'

Billy's starting to go red in the face. Joey feels it's time to intervene.

'Okay, Jack, we take the point. Sit down, Billy.' He waits til his brother does. 'But you're right of course. That does prove Adrian's theory.'

They have an animated discussion about it over the next half-hour, examining their own lives and coming to conclusions about the matter of trousers.

Jack, they decide, is okay. Though Leonora is older, though she mothers him to some extent, they still have a fairly even balance of power. (Well, if you can consider it 'even' when Jack is the one who ponces around in a pinny and does the cooking, but Jack's quite good at threatening people to reconsider their opinions.) Irenee beats Adrian by a narrow margin (after Adrian's significantly haggled it down. His siblings have been kind to him, due to the fact that he warns them his masculinity is hanging by a thread.)

'What about me and Oswald?' Aveline asks.

Jack makes a face. 'I don't think either of you win there. You're both too _soppy._'

'Well I don't know,' Adrian says, 'I do think a vicar's got a lot of seriousness and responsibility about him…'

'Doesn't mean Aveline tells him what to do, though, does it?'

'I don't _tell_ Oswald what to do!' Aveline protests.

'Yeah, that's what we were just sayin',' says Jack. They conclude Aveline is far too little and feminine to be calling the shots, and she agrees, adding that being a model as well as a mother means she has to be soft and delicate and gentle.

'I know one thing for certain,' Joey announces, 'I'm the boss in my house.'

The others look at Joey and then burst out laughing.

'What are you lot all laughin' about, then?' He glances around at his brothers and sister, each of them snickering quite loudly and rudely, Billy going so far as to actually bury his head in his arms (his laughter's still the loudest, and escapes even this attempt at muffling it).

Even Nellie, who's been doing her best not to listen to this conversation, is having trouble keeping a straight face.

'Martina's got you on a _leash_,' Jack manages to get out between chortles.

Joey is indignant. 'No she 'asn't! Where _do_ you get that idea from?'

'Where _don't_ we get that idea from?' Jack retorts, his dark eyes twinkling with merriment. 'You do the slightest thing wrong, you go grovellin' to her on all fours!'

'I _don't_!' Joey exclaims, feeling his ego slip a little in its notch. It's humiliating, them making insinuations like this, especially when he's been the head of their family for years and years. Of course, they're all adults now, all with families of their own, they're more equal than they were before, but Joey still feels they're undermining the authority he's always held.

The other four exchange knowing looks at his protest.

'I go where I want, and I do as I please,' Joey insists, 'I'm me own boss, son!'

'Yeah- but that's only 'cause she lets you,' Jack says, 'all she'd 'ave to do would be take your car keys and give you one look and you'd never be goin' anywhere or doin' anythin' again!'

'That's not fair!' cries Joey. 'You're bein' very harsh on Martina-_and_ it's not true, anyway. If anythin', we're equal. Partners. Okay?'

'Now, I have to admit,' begins Adrian, good, sensible Adrian, 'what Jack said might be a bit on the harsh side. What Joey and Martina have is a very comfortable, loving relationship.'

'Thank you,' says Joey.

'But let's face it, Joey,' Adrian says matter-of-factly, 'she does hold more of the cards than all of our women put together!'

Horrid, not-so-sensible Adrian after all.

'She does _not_,' he splutters.

But she does, though. If Joey's being honest, he'll admit to himself that she does. Even when he thinks he's pulling the strings he'll turn around and find she's secretly been twitching them all along. The way they became engaged is an example of that- his brothers still mock him about it, and he wishes he'd never told them what really happened. The way she's apparently always known what he gets up to at night is an example of that.

And he's not all that averse to the system they have. Because that's the sort of person Martina is, and he loves her for it.

But if anyone asks, he'll maintain to the death that the trousers belong to him alone.

* * *

'You know what I found this morning, Joey?'

Joey doesn't know, as it happens, but whatever it is, it's going to either lead to a tease or a telling-off, judging by Martina's tone of voice.

'Just remember before you reveal to the world what you have discovered, that we are, in fact, in public, sweetheart, and there are a fair few witnesses about.'

As a matter of fact, they're dining out tonight, seeing as Joey's had quite a good week, and Martina a dreadful one, and they both have an unacknowledged tradition that money plus stress equals a nice dinner.

Martina raises her brows conspiratorially. 'Two hundred pounds, that's what.'

'Your luck's changing,' he says, reaching over with his fork and swiping a piece of her food. She doesn't bother to stop him anymore. There'd been shouts of _'oi! Get yer own!'_ at the beginning, and she used to move her plate as far away from him as possible, prompting him to find more and more creative ways of stealing her food. Nowadays she's resigned herself to the little habit- in fact, he's noticed, she tends to move all his favourite bits and pieces to the edge of the plate, so as to make it easier for him to pilfer them and easier for her to ignore him whilst he does.

'Find it blowin' in the gutter on your way to work, did you?'

'_Joey_…' warningly, 'you _know_ where I found it.'

He does. He shrugs. 'Habit.'

She returns the shrug. 'Nuisance.' Her voice is almost sing-song; he's not in too much hot water today. The dinner has been rather efficient in cheering her up.

'When one is from a very big and united fam-i-ly,' Joey says dramatically, 'one becomes used to contributin' money for the good of the household- now…' he's got a whole speech planned, one of those ones he knows she loves (and by 'loves' he means 'which irritate her'), but while he's been distracted with thinking up this Homeric epic of an excuse, she's come up with a way to silence him.

And before he realises what's happening, she's leaned over the table and skimmed a mushroom off the top of his dish with her fork.

The speech slips from his mind.

'Eh!'

She spears it properly onto her fork, holding it up to her lips mischievously before putting it in her mouth.

'Get your own!' Joey cries, mock-shocked.

She snorts. 'Hypocrite.'

There are days like this, when they can laugh and tease, despite everything, and they're both just so happy in each other's company they can forget all the hurricanes blowing around them. When they can get their minds off all the myriad of problems they've still to face, and the ones that haunt them from days of yore.

When everything is just so comfortably _right_.

* * *

And there are days, of course, when it isn't.

There are days when too many things clash between them, creating a friction that only needs one to rub the other up the wrong way once more to cause a spark, and then they're at each other's throats and so help anyone or anything that gets caught in the crossfire.

Today it's one of the usual killer combinations- Martina's stress at work and Joey's being fed up with constantly being the butt of Boswell-jokes that have led to a thunderous row.

Sometimes he's not in the mood to hear sarcastic refrains of how- horror of horrors- the country might collapse if Grandad's not properly looked after at all times- and he tells her so, his voice low and scratchy and annoyed.

His indignation with her comment only provokes her own umbrage, because she's just had _enough_ of this, after all the ratbags she's put up with at work today she doesn't need this when she gets home as _well_, does he hear her?

And so their argument spirals out of control, until, as always, he can't really remember what they were fighting about in the first place, but it's a matter of principle, he can't concede now, after all this, so he simply storms out.

'And good riddance!' he hears her shout after him.

Sometimes they frustrate each other so violently this has to be done, he has to go outside, get a breath of air, get away from her accusations. He stays away for hours, drives around aimlessly in his Jag.

When he gets home, she'll make some snide remark about where she assumes he's been.

And he'll always find it too good an opportunity to pass up, end up delivering an award-winning zinger back, and their fight will soon become a merry one, all taunts about devious Boswells and secret lucrative schemes and frosty-faced DHSS ladies who will never ever _ever _bring him to justice, even now (_oh, but I will, you'll see)_, and the frustrating and the arguing are worth it, he thinks.

Because really, they're happy.

* * *

When Freddie Boswell had an allotment, Joey had an organic produce business. It was boring, reliable, predictable- and about as profit-making as gambling with a pair of twos in your hand, especially toward the end. Joey's gone back to what he knows best, to secret, quiet work in the dead hours of the night, where the money comes to his hand instantly, thick piles of crisp notes that there's no tax on, because he's working for himself and working for cash. Only this time, he's very careful not to enrage the tax man and get himself caught. He's learned a lesson from that, makes sure to cover his tracks a bit better this time around. Plus, he still gets benefits, because even though Martina knows what he's doing, the other clerks don't, and he's still unemployed, if you go by the definition that involves words like 'official' and 'wage packets.' And though there are a lot of raised eyebrows about how on earth he can afford a house where _he_ lives, he lies seamlessly and pretty much gets away with it. It's a good system, he thinks.

And it works. An average of three nights a week working and he's got enough to keep them comfortable, keep them in the house it cost him so much to buy but he so desperately wanted, as well as send the alimony to Roxy, wherever she is, along with a bundle of extra cash for her kid's birthday and Christmas presents, which he hopes actually gets to the lad and doesn't just end up in his ex-wife's purse with the rest.

So Joey ignores all the glossy advertisements for sure-win investments, because he's got all he needs.

There are some days, though, when things don't go his way.

'Got a proposition for you, old friend,' Yizzel's mate says, and Joey looks at his Jag, sandwiched between two other cars, and sighs.

'Yeah, a proposition.'

'Not interested, mate.'

'I think you'll find it'll do you good.'

'Do you good.'

'Oh, yeah? Like the last time, when you nicked a whole heap o' silverware and wanted me to shift it? I could've done _time_ for that, if you 'adn't lost the whole lot in the Mersey.'

'Now now, don't start gettin' on your high horse, Joey,' says Yizzel's mate. 'I've got a brilliant business venture you might be interested in, that's all.'

Joey's quite sure he won't be, but they've cornered him, and the only way out is to feign interest or climb onto the receiving end of something much worse.

Oh, Martina's going to murder him.

'I'm listening.'

* * *

The 'brilliant business venture' lands Joey with a thousand pound fine. Martina's livid.

He endures about an hour of shouting, most of the words of which involve _I told you not to…_ and _if you so much as think you can claim for this, Joey Boswell- from me or from anyone else, you have got another thing coming!_

She then gives him the most spectacular cold shoulder he's ever experienced. It lasts nearly three days, during which he and the sofa become most intimately acquainted, because it's the only part of the house he feels he can go near without being covered by the shadow of her silent disapproval.

'I did it for her, you know,' he tells the couch one morning, after waking up on it for the second night running. 'All me brilliant, lucrative schemes are for her these days, you see, son. Oh, I'll still help the fam-i-ly out, I'll never stop doin' that, but, you know, everythin' we have here, this house, and everything in it- you included- you didn't all come cheap, you know, and somehow I have to…'

'Who are you talkin' to?'

Joey jumps. Martina's standing in the doorway in her dressing gown, something clutched between her hands.

'Oh, er, no-one,' he says, 'just the…sofa.' He knows how ridiculous that must sound.

'You're not goin' daft, are yer?'

'Depends on your definition, sweetheart. If it's daft with worry that me beautiful wife is forever gonna hold this mistake against me, then perhaps I am.'

She shakes her head, moves into the room and sits down next to him, putting whatever's in her hands down on her other side.

'I let you down, didn't I?'

She breathes out. 'Well, not to put too fine a point on it…'

'I intend to pay that fine, you know. Every penny of it.'

'You'd _better_- and don't think I'll 'elp yer out.'

'Oh, of course not, sunshine. I'm a _Boswell_. I can think of many clever ways to obtain a thousand pounds.'

And then he realises he's walked into the trap.

'Oh, you can, can you? Well, then, you won't be needin' yer Social Security cheques anymore.'

'Or perhaps not _that_ clever…' Joey begins, but it's too late for that. She's already won. She's toying with his mind, though, which means she must have let him off the hook somewhat.

Joey gives a sigh of relief. 'Well, at least you're okay about it. I thought for a moment you might've wanted to leave me.'

'No, _Mister_ Boswell,' it's always Mister when he's in trouble, _and_ when she's teasing, but he can usually tell the difference between the two, 'I am _not_ okay about it. Not in the least. But why you think that means I'd leave yer is beyond me.'

'Good,' says Joey, slipping his arms round her waist, shuffling closer to her, 'great. Fantastic.'

'Just 'ang on a minute there,' she unwinds his arms, 'I didn't say you weren't still in trouble.'

Joey frowns to himself. He supposes that's justified, and he's surprised she's not angrier still, given the amount he puts her through. He sometimes wonders why she puts up with him at all.

He says this to her, and she looks at him sternly, as if the answer's so obvious he shouldn't need to ask.

'Look,' she says, fixing him with a stare that commands him not to look away, 'why do you think I married you?'

'Because I asked you to.'

'No you didn't. I asked you.'

'_Technically,_ but only after I'd asked you fifteen times already, so really, it was still my idea.'

She tuts. 'Let me rephrase. Why do you think I've _stayed_ married to you?'

'Because you don't like change.'

She smacks him, hard. 'One last guess.'

Joey rubs his smarting shoulder and opens his mouth.

'-I'll hit you a lot harder this time,' she warns, and he immediately retracts the smart remark he'd planned to say.

'You love me,' he whispers. 'Got it right this time, didn't I?'

'Yes,' she murmurs, rewarding him with a soft kiss, and then pulling away to raise an eyebrow at him. 'Lucky for you.'

'Does this mean you'll forgive me my reckless investment?'

'_Well_,' she cocks her head to the side, 'provided you never do it again, I might be prepared to.'

Joey beams, putting a hand on each of her shoulders. 'Sunshine,' he announces, 'I am _utterly_ in love with you.' He kisses her.

'And you are gonna be _utterly_ in trouble, Mister Boswell, if you ever do _this_ again,' she says, reaches behind her back and brings out the teapot.

Joey looks on sheepishly as she very slowly removes the lid, dips her hand in and comes out with a handful of banknotes.

* * *

It's an ordinary sort of Saturday afternoon, and as Joey turns his Jag into the driveway of their Gateacre home, he's humming a tuneless, nameless melody. He's tired, but pleasantly so after a day spent with Aveline, Oswald and the kids, both of whom are quite loud and bawdy and hyperactive- such a contrast to their parents. He sees more of Billy in the pair than of Aveline and Oswald – come to think of it, he sees more of Billy in them than in Francesca, who, at eight years old, is a right prim little miniature of Julie.

'Greetings!' he calls cheerfully as he pushes open the front door, slinging his coat on the hook and strolling into the kitchen. She's not there, but she's been there recently- plate and cup still out. He doesn't register them, though, because his eyes are drawn to something in the middle of the table.

He blinks, then does it again, reaches out tentatively to touch…

It's a pot. And not just any pot- it's porcelain and white and shaped like a chicken, and tears spring to his eyes just to look at it. Joey takes it in his hands, takes the lid off, puts it back on, bites his lip.

The light thud of footsteps announces Martina's coming down the stairs, and he turns to her, the pot clutched tightly to his chest.

'Where'd this come from?'

'I bought it,' she says, and then adds unnecessarily, 'for you.'

Joey, who's come over all emotional and can no longer speak, just nods from her to the pot and back again. Martina never comes out with gestures like this. She's not one for a lot of sentiment, not if she can avoid it. She barely writes anything in birthday cards, even, just signs her name- so to have put so much thought into a gift- and an unexpected one at that- is utterly unlike her and totally moving. He wants to thank her, but can't find the words.

She knows, though. He can tell she knows.

'Don't flatter yerself to think I did that _just_ for you.' She smirks. 'I bought that so I'd finally be able ter use me teapot without findin' your stash o'cash in it.'

Joey still can't speak. Sometimes she doesn't understand, not being from a big, united family herself- she barely speaks to her parents and hasn't seen her brother in years- just how much of his mind they all occupy, gets annoyed when he has his occasional pangs of homesickness or acts on a habit that originated in Kelsall Street. But sometimes she just _knows_ him, knows what'll make him happy better than he does.

'Come 'ere,' he says, his voice thick with affection. He shifts the hen to one hand, takes her wrist and pulls her closer, leaning in for a kiss.

'Hold on a minute, Mister Boswell,' she holds up her free hand.

She takes the pot from him and places it back down on the table.

'I'd put that down if I were you. Don't wanna break it straight away, do we?'

'No, of course we don't, sweetheart. But if a tragedy like that _were_ to occur, there's always the teapot to fall back on.'

She cuffs him. He kisses her.

They're happy.

* * *

**And so concludes the first episode of my brain's total descent into madness. Some points to note: the article Adrian finds is totally made up. I know nothing about the statistics of such things XD Martina's A-levels are canon, she mentioned them in a Shifty episode though grr.**

** Also, different chapters will switch points-of-view, just to make it more confusing, so a lot of what Joey thinks might be totally at odds with Martina's take on it all. **

**Next chapter is going to be a jump backwards in time, and here is a small preview:**

_It's not the racket that's keeping her awake. It's more the nauseating feeling that something in her life is not right, and she doesn't know how to fix it._

**Forgive me for this heinous insanity of a fic. I just need to get it out my system.**


	2. The Post Office Savings Book: 1993

**And now we go back a couple of years. This chapter's Martina-centric, and as it's from her POV, some things might clash with Joey's thoughts, particularly his views about her being tough. What he sees when he looks at her and what she sees when she looks at herself are two very different things.**

**Some episode references, particularly to the scene where Martina had a conversation with Billy about her family. It is canon that she had a brother, and that he was an alcoholic. I made up his name (and a lot of backstory about him which I intend to write about later.)**

**Warnings: ANGST. Lots of angst. Triggers. Depression. Probably not enough to hit an M rating though. I hope. But Martina's in for a rough time. You have been warned.**

**Forgive the length. And the light Shifty is painted in. And any possible typos as usual.**

* * *

**The Post Office Savings Book**

** Late 1993  
**_It's not the racket that's keeping her awake. It's more the nauseating feeling that something in her life is not right, and she doesn't know how to fix it._

_~X~X_

It's dark and cold and noisy, the traffic going past outside creating a cacophonous symphony of beeps and brake squeals that would keep most people awake- only the two of them are used to the sounds by now, and can sleep through it. Well, he can, anyway.

Martina sits by the window, holding the curtain aside and staring at the passing cars below. It's not the racket that's keeping her up, though. It's more the nauseating feeling that something in her life is not right, and she doesn't know how to fix it.

Martina puts up with far much more than she should. She acts like the hard-faced, heart-of-stone warrior behind the DHSS counter, but outside of work, she's a pushover. Well, not a pushover, per se- but there's an insecurity within her that's lurked about since she was small, one which drives her time and time again to settle for less, because really, what more can she expect from life? She's aimed low all her life. Pathetic job, pathetic man- and if neither are to her satisfaction, who is she to ask for more, anyway?

The result is total and utter misery. But she's stuck with it all nonetheless. To her, happiness is a thing of fiction, a thing that other people experience, but she's yet to get a taste of other than for a few brief seconds at a time. A realist, she calls herself on some days. A pessimist, she calls herself on others. Completely and utterly hopeless, she calls herself now.

She'd never really had all that many aspirations, not even when she was young, but even so, she hadn't pictured it being _this_ bleak. She doesn't have one blessing to count, let alone two to rub together. Everything she's thought might lead to a bit of happiness has turned out to make things worse, and yet she's clung onto all she has regardless.

Shifty's an example of that.

She knows she loves him and should cut him some slack. She tells herself that enough times. She can even remember when she didn't have to force herself to think so.

But she looks over at him now, and something sickens her. She lives in a house full of trinkets he's stolen- half her evenings are spent in fear that the police will come looking for them, will burst into the flat in the middle of the night, and she'll be implicated. And it won't be a light sentence if that does happen- some of those stolen objects aren't exactly small. Or cheap.

And then there are the other women. She hasn't confronted him about them, doesn't know their names, even what they look like, where they are, when he's seeing them, but she knows they exist nonetheless. She knows the smell of her own perfume, and of Shifty's cologne, and he comes back frequently reeking of a scent that's neither.

And on top of that she has to add the constant wanderings. In a good week, she'll see him maybe two, three times, even though they've lived together for two years now, been together for three, maybe even four, only she's lost track. Shifty's always off somewhere to 'find himself.' He must be looking in the wrong places, because he still hasn't been successful to date. And she'd wager he's pilfered a car or two when he goes off on these 'journeys of self-discovery.' It all makes her ill, right to her core. She shouldn't put up with it. She should have come to her senses long ago and kicked him out.

Not that she hasn't tried. She tries often, makes an attempt to be strong and says that only an idiot would fall for his lies the fourth, the fifth, the twentieth time. But within a few days she always lets him back in. It's because she loves him, she tells herself. And when you love someone, you have to make allowances. So she gives in. And she's so convincing she almost believes herself.

She loves him. Or rather, she did, anyway. Once. A while ago. Once upon a time, in a faraway land.

Now, Martina realises, she stays with him from a sort of feeble fear of change. She's never been partial to great emotional upheavals- they're such a waste of time and effort and they drain far too much of her. It's so much better, she thinks, to stay put, especially when she's put roots down- to pull them out would mean pain, and a lot of difficulty. The pain here, at least, she's used to. She can cope with it. She knows what to expect.

It's…easy.

It's easier to pretend things are all right. Martina's an expert at putting a brave face on it, maintaining a good shop-front while inside she's going to pieces. And this is what she does, day in, day out, while Shifty gallivants around with women, comes home at all hours after days of disappearing without warning, drinks himself into a stupor, shouts, steals things. Losing him would mean she would have to start over, and it's the idea of this unknown sort of future that she finds so daunting she tolerates it all- not with good humour (she's never turned down the opportunity for a good complain about the hand she's been dealt), but she tolerates it all the same, because what's the alternative?

But now Martina sits and stares into the night and thinks. She catches sight of her reflection in the window, and she doesn't like it. Here is a woman who's given up, who's written her whole life off as a failure. And she doesn't even have an excuse for it, really. She can't say she's too tired to start afresh- she's only just thirty-four. People in their thirties are still taking risks, still finding new horizons, doing the sort of daring things she's never felt like doing. She doesn't really want to take many risks- doesn't even want to try. You take a leap, you fall, you hurt yourself, that's what she's learned from life. And so she's played it safe, but that doesn't seem to work either, because she's just as sore, just as hurt, just as downtrodden and miserable as if she'd tried and failed.

For a minute something terrible grabs hold of her, possesses her. She cranes her head, tries to see down to the pavement. She wonders just how far down it is; if she opened up the window and slid off the sill, how quick it would be, how much it would hurt. It would be so simple. She wouldn't have to face any more mess, have to go through any more upheavals. That would be it. Nice and tidy and final. Her fingers twitch.

No, no, a voice in her head says. No, no, no, _no, NO._ She doesn't want that, not really. She may not have the happiest of lives, but she's still got about half of it left, and she wants to hold onto it.

But the realisation that she's even allowed herself to contemplate that option is a turning point for Martina. If things have gotten to this point, then something's got to change. Something's got to give, because at the moment she's got nothing, _nothing_ that feels worth it. And nothing isn't enough to go on.

Like it or not, she's going to have to do something about her life.

She walks back over to the bed, looks at Shifty, sleeping selfishly, taking up seven-eighths of the space, something shining gold clutched in his hand. Probably stolen. She shakes her head. He's draining away her spirit a little bit at a time. Even now, watching him, her throat constricts. She's invested too much emotional attachment in him, but he's not good for her, never has been. And it isn't likely things are going to go uphill, not when they're rolling down at a steady, sure pace.

_I need to get out. _

It kills her to admit it, but that's the only way. This is going nowhere, and if she ever, ever wants a hope of a future, she needs to go. Just grit her teeth and walk away. And the sooner the better.

She'll start working out what she's going to do tomorrow.

Martina gets back into bed but doesn't sleep.

* * *

The problem Martina's always had is that she gives her love to people who make a wreck of her. Her brother Roger was a prime example of this- already an alcoholic when she was _born_, he was probably the worst influence any young child could have in their little lives. If her parents said no to something, Roger would give it to her- and her requests, for someone so young, were quite dreadful ones. And yet, though she knew he was a bad influence, she loved him something awful, and it broke her heart when he eventually went on the run from the law, effectively abandoning her.

In many ways, she thinks that what attracted her to Shifty was his resemblance to Roger- the sort of scruffy sweetness that endears at a first glance, the potential to make something of himself, unfulfilled and overshadowed by the all-consuming desire to attain more by the quickest, and often shadiest means possible. They're very much alike- she's let herself love them without considering the consequences, and they've destroyed her.

Well, never again, she thinks. If this is what love does to you, she doesn't want it anymore.

Shifty leaves early the next morning. Where he's going he doesn't say. What he's doing she could make several guesses at, if she wanted to, only she'd rather not. She pretends to be asleep, feels him give her a routine kiss before he goes, waits until she hears the door to the flat shut and his footsteps die off before she gets out of bed.

Martina doesn't really know where to go or what to do. Where to start, even. She drags her coat on, wanders around town, turmoil raging through her mind.

She hasn't a clue where she's heading, and when she finds her feet have taken her to outside a church, she goes in without looking at which one it is. Names don't matter- either will do just fine. If anyone needs a prayer right now, it's her.

It smells nice and feels safe, and Martina decides she'll stay here a while, whilst she works out what to do next.

She kneels down, and starts talking, voicing her fears out loud. There aren't any other people in here at the moment, so she decides it doesn't matter if she does.

'Hello,' she begins awkwardly. She fiddles with a button on her coat. 'Er, I haven't been here in a while. Year or two maybe. But You know that. I probably should've though, eh? I've just had a lot to do, and sometimes I forget.'

She clears her throat. 'The thing is, I've just reached a point where…' the fiddling with her button becomes more frantic, 'where nothing in my life seems…worth anythin' anymore. And I want ter do somethin' about that, but…' a tear escapes, and her voice breaks. 'it's hard. And I don't know what to do, and I don't even know if it's the right thing, but…I'm desperate. I could really use something right now- oh, I don't know, even just…the courage to get up and do it, to leave Shifty. I just can't stay with him anymore- but it frightens me, the idea of leavin'.'

Martina pauses, wipes her eyes. 'I know, I shouldn't _be_ frightened. I've built me whole image on appearin' like I don't care about anythin', like I can face up to whatever anyone says or does. Thing is, sometimes I can't. I don't always manage to stay frosty, and…and emotionless, and especially not when it's someone I used to love…it just makes it that little bit harder. And I'm not askin' fer- fer a miracle, or anything like that, I just want…to be able to do it. To go. I don't want to be afraid ter make that break. Because I think maybe then…maybe…my life…might get a bit better.'

She pauses again, trying to get her ragged breathing under control. 'That's about it. Yeah. That's all I wanted to say, really…thanks.'

Martina doesn't cry. When she first started working in the DHSS, she trained herself not to. It was essential- if the more aggressive clients catch you showing signs of weakness, they'll eat you, and she vowed at the beginning never to let that happen. Instead she stays where she is, slowly pulling herself back together, taking deep breaths until she calms, forcing the tears back to wherever they came from.

A few more minutes go by, or maybe an hour. She isn't keeping track.

Martina feels a gentle pressure on the back of her head.

She shifts from her position, looks at her watch. It's about midday, but she doesn't know what time she got here, so that doesn't tell her anything. She looks at it again, even though she knows full well the miniature clock face can provide her with no new information.

And then she gets up and walks out.

And her legs propel her right to the estate agents across town.

* * *

Within two weeks, she's got it all planned out, has got some of her plan underway.

He can have the flat. She doesn't want it, and he won't go if she asks him to leave. Martina wants to start afresh, be somewhere he can't find, where no-one can find, have a sanctuary to herself that's never been invaded by loves gone wrong. And so she starts looking, hides real estate notices in with her paperwork, sacrifices lunch breaks to look at affordable places.

Shifty will be furious, of course. Martina has always, _always_ paid the rent, even though she knows that Shifty's got a whole backlog severance pay from the jobs he's constantly losing, is bound to get more, could easily afford it. He'll have to cope now- and, she thinks, really, it's about time he was forced to take care of himself.

Shifty flits in and out as he's always done, not noticing the change in her. He's still stealing and cheating as he always has, and occasionally he'll let slip the detail of something or other he shouldn't have done. A short while ago, each of these admissions would have weighed Martina down- another burden. Now she dismisses them in her mind. She's got a plan of action, and she's devoting as much of her waking thought to it as possible, rather than allowing all her brain space to be sacrificed to this tragedy of a wreck of a relationship.

She's not going to tell him right away, though. It might be an easy way out, but her plan is to have everything sorted and settled before she breaks the news to him that it's over, so there will be as few confrontations as possible, so there will be no arguments over division of property, so she won't have to hang around the place, one or other of them sleeping in a different room, while she tries to find somewhere to live with him breathing down her neck, or worse, and more probable actually, trying to talk her into changing her mind. No, until she's actually gone, Shifty doesn't need to know anything.

The front door opens and shuts. Martina sits on the brochures she's been looking through, picks up her sewing as Shifty does a token wipe of his feet.

'And where have you been?' She shouldn't ask- she's given up trying to stop him going out and doing his dirty deeds, but she can't go looking suspicious now, when everything's so close, when she's almost left, so she demands it anyway.

'If anyone asks, I was _here_,' he stalks right through into the bedroom, leaving a trail of mud, as well as his coat, scarf and shoes as he flings them off, through the living room.

'What did you take this time?' She's weary of this, and her voice betrays it.

He hesitates in the doorway, looks round at her. He's irritated, twitchy. Whatever he's done has put him in the pathway of some serious trouble.

'I've taken nothing.' He's lying. They both know this.

_The sooner I get out o' here the better_. And it will be soon now.

She gazes after him as he slams the bedroom door, muttering something about needing to change his clothes. For a moment she thinks about what he might have gotten himself into, and she falters. He's so _lost_. He needs help. He needs to be guided, taught not to keep doing wrong.

And she could do that. She could try, she could be his help, she…

_Honestly, Martina. Talk sense. You've been tryin' ter help 'im since the dawn of time. He doesn't want to listen. How are you gonna do now what you haven't managed in four years?_

She swallows. She's almost just done it again, fallen back into the same delusions that have kept her trapped for far too long. Shifty, she has to understand, is never going to change. And it isn't as if she hasn't tried to change him before. She has. She's sat him down, had frank talks with him. She's shouted at him, when he's gone two steps beyond too far. And it's all to no avail. He'll utter an apology, try and shift the blame onto his upbringing, kiss her, because he's found that works better than actually trying to do anything about anything, and then within a day he'll have done it again.

No, she's going to have to get away. If she doesn't, she'll be stuck here forever, trying to fix something that's beyond repair, and just breaking herself into even more pieces as she does so.

She's made up her mind, and she's going to stick with her decision, no matter what.

* * *

The flat she finds is poky to say the very least. On top of that, it's dingy, it could probably use some repairs, but it's cheap, and in what can by a long shot be called walking distance from the Social Security office, if she starts out early enough.

And Martina doesn't care about the flaws- not now. If things get to be too bad, she can look for somewhere else at her leisure, but right now her immediate concern is getting _something_, and this fits that criterion well enough.

'All right, then,' she tells the landlord, 'I'll take it.'

He looks at her with surprise. It's clear enough he's been trying to get a tenant for a long time, and has found little interest.

'I'll need the first month's rent in advance- paid in full by the end of the week.'

'Done,' she says quickly, and he raises an eyebrow.

By the following Monday she has the keys. By the following Thursday, she's begun to move things in, taking first what won't be noticeable, leaving what she can spare behind. If she feels she can live without it, it doesn't come.

She starts to smile at her clients at work, and this frightens them more than her usual behaviour. They wonder if something's wrong with her.

But, for the first time in a while, something's going right. It's still difficult, she still feels twangs at her heartstrings when she looks at Shifty asleep and realises soon she'll never see him like this again, but she's reassured by the fact that this is the right thing to do, and soon enough, all the stress and depression and pain will be over.

She hopes.

* * *

He's absorbed in the football on the telly when she comes out with it. This was always the part of the evening she liked, back in the day- when it's football season Shifty's home routinely every night, and doesn't leave the sofa for hours. Granted, he doesn't talk to her, but it's enough of his company that she can pretend he's spending time with her.

Realising now what she's been doing, she can see just how tragic it all is, how deluded she was for thinking that settling for that little could be in any way good for her.

Time to do it. Everything's been leading up to this, she's taken all the steps except one, and after all the effort she's been to, she'd bloody well better do it. Now, before she changes her mind.

'Shifty.'

'Huh.' He barely looks up from his programme.

She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth.

'Shifty, I'm goin'.'

'Goin' where?' Still not very interested.

'I'm leavin' you.'

That gets his attention. He scrambles off the couch and to his feet in record time, turning to face her with a scandalised expression. It becomes even more scandalised when he properly takes her in, suitcase in hand, coat and scarf done tightly up.

'Oh, _what?' _ he smacks his forehead, 'what 'ave I done _now_?'

Always the same refrain. As if he doesn't ever know.

'It's not just one thing, Shifty, it's 'undreds. It's _everything._' How can she explain this? That it's not one of their normal fights, about his latest misdeed, that this time it's for real, final, the end?

'You found out about Liese, didn't you?'

_Who?_ Martina's beyond caring. The fact that he's had yet another affair takes a smidgeon of the guilt away.

'It's not because of that…'

'I'll stop seein' her, I will! It didn't mean anything, anyway, it's you, it's always been you, she meant nothing to meee…'

_Don't fall for it. _ 'This isn't about…whoever. This is far bigger than your bits on the side, Shifty.'

'Well, is it about that gold credit card I nicked, because I don't know how that ended up in my pocket, believe me…'

He's 'fessing up to all sorts of things today, isn't he? But it doesn't matter. Because she's already made up her mind to leave him, and she's not going to change it back.

'Shifty, I am not goin' because of one woman, or because of one extra stolen thing. I'm goin' because…' she takes a deep breath, 'because I'm not happy.'

He blinks. He doesn't realise. It hasn't hit him, not yet.

'I 'aven't been fer years. And every time I take you back I think 'oh well, this'll be the last time, he'll change for certain', and every time, you weasel yer way back into me life and go on as you always 'ave- and I can't live like that, Shifty! Not anymore. I should've walked away a long time ago.'

'No-one ever thinks anything of me- not even you, me own _lover_…'

She doesn't know what he hopes to achieve with this comment. Whatever it is, it doesn't work.

'People would think things o' you if you behaved from time to time…'

'You sound like the Boswells! They were always nag-nag-nagging me too!' Shifty hasn't been in contact with the Boswells for a year and half at least. She's not sure why they severed ties. At the time, she'd sided with him, out of duty and loyalty and an ingrained mistrust of all things Boswell, but now she's not so sure they weren't the ones in the right. Perhaps even the codes of 'family' and 'unity' can only take so much.

'And so they should've been, if you treated them the way you treat me!'

'Oh, I'm always mis_treating_ you, am I? Why is it always you who gets to throw a strop? Sometimes I'm upset by things you do and say too, you know!'

So he thinks she's just 'in a strop.' He doesn't realise she means it.

Doesn't realise that this time it isn't a threat- it's actually over.

'You can 'ave the flat,' she says, watching as a shadow comes over his face, as some awareness clicks in his head. 'I don't need it- I've found meself somewhere else to live.'

'Oh, don't, _don't_, don't do this to me, Martina! Don't say you're _actually_ goin' so far as to say you're moving out for good this time? I _told_ you I'll change!'

He still doesn't believe it, not even when the evidence is staring him in the face.

Martina says nothing, just looks at him, her face hard, shut down to all emotion. She watches his eyes as they flicker over her, trying to swallow it all. After a long while, he gives an aggressive shake of his head, turns back to the telly and away from her.

'Well maybe when you come back, I won't let you in!' he snaps. 'You're not the only one who can have had enough of something, you know!'

Martina sighs. Where even to _begin_ correcting all that? For one thing, Shifty doesn't have a right to say he's 'had enough' of her behaviour, because all the times she's threatened to leave him, _tried _to leave him, tried to kick him out, have been in retaliation to him in the first place. For another, she's not coming back.

He won't accept that, though. She knows how his mind works, and she knows he's thinking this is all still a trick, some sort of punishment, and that she'll come round in a day or two, start talking to him again, and then it'll be as if none of it happened. They'll fall back into their usual routine. And then he'll wait a little while, make sure it's safe, before going back to his wicked old ways.

He'll soon wise up, she thinks. Once days pass, then weeks, with still no sign of her, he'll realise she means every word, that this is the finale.

She holds her head up, walks past him, out the door and onto the landing, breathing the musty air of the building and relaxing, because she's done it, she's done the right thing. It's over.

'_Women!_' she hears Shifty shout from inside the flat.

* * *

It takes about a week to really hit him. A week of peace, but peace at a price- a calm before the storm sort of affair, because she knows that soon he'll find out, and there'll be a riot.

She utilises this borrowed time productively. She unpacks her things, rearranges the furniture in her new flat (it doesn't really fit, no matter which way she sets it all up), tries to work out why she can only get cold water, finds out the bus routes from her new living quarters to work.

It's further from the Social Security than she thought. It's also smaller and darker than she remembered from when she looked around. But she didn't have much to choose from, and even living here without Shifty is better than living in a nice place _with_ Shifty.

Things go wrong, and it's just her luck, she thinks. The stove dies, and she doesn't have enough in her ordinary bank account to pay to have it repaired. Somewhere around, Martina has a post-office savings book, which she's been carefully contributing to every so often for emergencies such as these, but though she tears all her boxes apart, she can't find it. She keeps searching. It can't be at the old place, it just _can't_- that's _all_ she needs, having to go back for something and winding up having a dramatic confrontation with Shifty.

It's on a Thursday morning that the inevitable happens. Martina's gotten to work early, the result of bus timetables gone haywire, and she bends over her desk, eyes heavy and sleep-crusted, waiting for her morning coffee to kick in so she'll be ready to face whatever rabble come through the doors to claim today.

Her phone extension rings.

'Hello?' she slurs.

'All your clothes are gone.'

The Irish accent does a better job at waking her up than pet pills would've. She's alert at once.

'Took you that long to notice?'

'All. Your. Clothes. Are. _Gone.'_

'Yes, Shifty,' she says calmly. 'I moved out.'

'Not just a suitcase full! All of them!'

'Yes, Shifty,' she repeats. 'I moved out.'

'What do you think it does to me- I'm lookin' through the drawers, tryin' to find a place to hide the- oh, never mind! And I find that all yours are empty!'

'I know. That's because I _moved out_.'

'And not just your clothes! Other things! There's books missing! Some o' the chairs! All the pink towels in the house!'

'_Because, _Shifty,' she says through gritted teeth, 'I _moved out!_' She seems to just be saying the same thing over and over. If any of her colleagues are listening to this conversation, they'll probably think she's turned into a recording.

'You've moved out.'

'Yes!' she cries, exasperated. 'I've tried ter tell you an 'undred times!'

'So there really is a flat, then?'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'There is.'

Accusingly: 'You've _left _me.'

'I told you that 'n' all.'

'When did you decide to do this?'

An odd question. Not at all what she was expecting, but a reasonable one, considering. She counts back.

'Few weeks ago. Give or take.'

There's a pause so big she wonders if he's still there.

'A _few weeks_?' his voice is disbelieving. 'You've known you were gonna do this- for weeks? You've been plotting this for weeks?'

A laugh escapes her. She can't help it. '_Plotting_? You make it sound like _I'm_ the criminal, not you.'

'I don't think this is funny, Martina! After all I did for you!'

A bigger laugh. Neither of them are happy ones, just dry and disbelieving of the irony of it all. 'After all _you've_ done fer me? Name one thing you've done for me, Shifty. Ever.'

He tries. He can't.

And so he resorts to what she's seen so many people do when they can't think of another way to win the argument. He gets abusive.

She's been called worse, of course. She gets people like Mr Wilson and Mr Dodd and Mrs Cullen who have a whole name-book full of insults just for her, and she never bats an eyelid. But this is Shifty, who she's been attached to for so long that it stings, it really does, especially when she's been used to his whispering words of affection, false as they were.

She holds the phone away from her ear, drops it down with a relieving, satisfying _clunk._

And then she puts her head in her hands and shakes from the stress of it all.

'Are you okay?' The new girl in the next partition is staring at her with concerned eyes. Martina pities the little thing. She's small and blonde and innocent and _young_, hasn't been here long enough to develop a hard-set mouth yet. She's still sort of sweet and soft and caring, and Martina can remember when all her colleagues were like that at one time or another, when they first arrived, hopeful that they could make some sort of difference. They soon learned, though, and became disillusioned- and so will this girl, not long from now.

Personally, Martina can't remember ever being like that. She didn't have much of a hopeful life before she took this job- it was just one more miserable step on an already miserable journey. She supposes this should make her feel jealous, but it doesn't. It just makes her pity the others even more, because they had high hopes of getting something right. She never did, so she was less disappointed.

'Yeah,' she mutters, brushing away the handkerchief the girl offers her. 'I'm fine.'

The girl doesn't look convinced.

'Really fine,' she repeats, a little more harshly than she intends.

'You in love, or just lost it?'

It's none of her business, Martina thinks, but she can't alienate herself from everyone. She'll never become friends with anyone she works with, but it can't hurt to have an ally or two, especially when they're all up against the same thing. So she forces a smile and answers the question.

'Lost it. Well, I lost it a long time ago, I suppose.'

'I know what _that's_ like,' says the girl, and Martina's a little surprised. How can she? She's only- what?- twenty, give or take a couple of years. 'It makes you feel hopeless, don't it?'

Maybe she's not as innocent and unknowing as Martina thought.

'Yeah. It does.'

The girl ponders. 'Men are such bastards sometimes.'

And Martina can't help but agree.

She's got four wasted years of life to show for that.

* * *

'You didn't sign-on this week.' Martina glares over the counter. 'Why not?'

'Me van broke down,' Billy Boswell whines. 'I couldn't get there!'

'Why didn't you phone us?'

'Oh yeah, _you_ try ringin' up when your engine's gone in the middle of the freeway!'

Martina purses her lips. 'Don't try that one on me. You've all got mobile phones these days- I've caught each and every one of you with them at least once.'

It's true, or it was at some point. Truth is, she doesn't actually see that much of the Boswells these days. Two years ago they'd been surging in as always- individually or in groups, either way was awful- demanding their 'dues' while dripping in expensive gear and gadgets, and then, for no apparent reason at all, the visits stopped. Joey decided to devote his time to his business and his marriage, and had no more time for clever schemes. Jack couldn't be bothered, and stopped claiming. Adrian was the first to go, as soon as he found a job, and having finally freed himself from the shackles of unemployment, worked up the nerve to tell her to 'stick it' before walking out through the double doors, never to disgrace the place with his presence again. And, of course, they never call in to visit Shifty- not after whatever it was that happened between them. Martina's thought about asking, but she decides it's none of her business, especially now she's not even involved with Shifty anymore.

It's only Billy she sees now. She hears all the news from him, of course, all the woes, now he's doing claims for Grandad (surely he can't have that much longer in him now! He's pushing eighty) and for the house and the rent and everything, but they never sound as convincing, nor as interesting. And his stories are always so sloppily pieced together that she can rip through any attempt he makes to claim dishonestly like tissue paper.

'I have problems in my life, you know!' Billy says. He scowls. It makes him look like a baby pug.

'We've _all_ got problems in our lives, Mister Boswell. The rest of us still manage to stick to the rules.'

'My marriage broke down three years ago, you know! I've got to pay _child_ _support_- and alimony, and still pay for me van and me sandwiches, which no-one's buying! And I still 'ave to live at home because I can't make enough to get a place of me own!'

Martina's had enough of this. 'How dreadful- it must be so _hard _for you, livin' at 'ome and havin' your mother lay it all on for you. I live in a flat which consists of three rooms, Mister Boswell, no hot water, a broken stove and barely any furniture. I have virtually nothing to live on-and I don't have the Enterprise Allowance Scheme or any other little money-making schemes on the side to fall back on- _and_ I've 'ad a relationship that's just broken down, so don't bother talkin' to _me_ about problems in yer life, Mister Boswell.'

Billy's stumped. She doesn't normally like to proclaim her own woes, but he's simple enough that the tactic works on him.

'That's sad.' A very perceptive remark.

She just raises one eyebrow at him.

'That's really sad.'

'You're telling me.' Next thing he'll be coming up with a laughable solution.

'If you give me me giro, I'll give you some money!' And there it is. It's easy enough to pick it to pieces. He never thinks things through, this one.

'And I thought you 'ad to pay child support and to get yer van fixed and all those other expenses,' she says, ' 'ow are you gonna manage that?'

'Well, I can borrow money from Joey for me van, and then you can have the giro!'

'But if you can borrow money from your Joey, you don't need the giro at all, now, do you?'

He's stumped again.

'We have a rule 'ere- if you don't sign-on, don't expect ter get anythin'. If you want somethin' for nothin'- _you obey the rules_. We'll send a giro out to you next time you do what you're supposed to.'

Billy looks grumpy again. He opens his mouth.

She beats him to it. 'NEXT!'

* * *

The situation's getting to boiling point- though, ironically, Martina's flat is doing just the opposite. The heating's given out completely now, the stove still needs fixing and there's still no hot water, and what's more, the landlord couldn't care less. And Martina still can't find her post-office book.

There's only one explanation. It's still in her old flat. She's forgotten to pack it.

And if that's the case, she's going to have to go and get it.

The thought fills her with dread and apprehension. Shifty doesn't know where she is, but he's not letting her go without a fight. She's had several more angry phone calls, a few visits at work, even, during which she's been extremely grateful for the safety of the partition. He's aggressive, he's been drinking a lot, she notices, he's not listening to reason nor talking sense. He alternates between pleading with her to come home and telling her in not-so-polite vocabulary exactly what she can do with herself. He's even accused her of having another man. As if she would. As if she would ever put herself through this again.

She can tell he's hurt, a little, but she steels herself against such thoughts. He's hurt her too, a lot more. She's done the right thing in leaving him. She can't blame herself for the way he is.

But still, she puts off going back for her savings book. She doesn't think she's up to a confrontation- not there, not yet.

So she puts it off.

But things go from bad to worse. The weather's getting colder as November approaches- she has to resort to sleeping in her coat. Her shower's so freezing she screams when the water hits her. She hasn't had a hot meal in days.

She needs that emergency money. She's going to have to go back.

Martina bides her time, approaches this carefully. It's a Wednesday night when she returns to the flat- she's chosen this day specifically because, for some bizarre reason, she can never remember Shifty being home on Wednesdays. It's cowardice- total and utter cowardice, trying to avoid him, but Martina reasons she's been brave enough over the past month or so, and she should be allowed a few wimpy acts now and again.

She approaches the front door very quietly, hears the familiar rattle as her keys stick in the lock and then she's in, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. Each footstep seems to echo, as if the place she used to call home is conspiring against her, as if it wants her to be caught.

Martina glances from right to left. No sign of him. She looks down at her watch, checks the time. It's about nine- and she has no idea how much time she has before Shifty gets back, because she has no idea where he's gone in the first place. No time to waste, then. She'd better start searching.

'Come back to apologise, or come back to mock me in my suffering?' The voice makes her jump right out of her skin. He _is_ here, after all.

She starts when she sees him, sitting curled in a ball on the floor in the middle of the living room, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and an empty bottle of something else rolling along the floor beside him. He stares up at her through bloodshot eyes, and she instinctively pulls her coat tighter around herself, as if the synthetic fabric will somehow protect her.

'I just came to get the rest of my things,' she says warily, taking a step toward the other side of the room, trying to avoid him without making it look too obvious. Martina would use her DHSS voice, knows she should to avoid sounding afraid- because that will undoubtedly provoke him, but she can't muster up enough courage, despite all the times she's faced off against aggressive people. Her legs are shaking.

'Lookin' for this, are you?' His speech is slurred. Very slurred. How much has he had? Martina bites her lip as he reaches behind his back, brings out her post-office book. It_ is_ what she's looking for. The rest of the odds and ends she's forgotten don't matter that much to her- everything else essential she's already taken, but she needs that post-office book. She can't survive without those savings. It's the only reason she's come back.

'Hand it over, Shifty,' she has a go at the authoritative voice, but it comes out off-key.

'Why?' he turns it over between his hands, 'so you can spend the money on running off with yer _lover_ and shooting emotional guns at me heart from a distance?' He lurches, and the book shudders in his hand. It'd just be a few steps, a quick lunge and she could snatch it, but she doesn't dare. She keeps her distance.

'Who is he, then?'

'Who's who?' Her voice might not be commanding, but at least she keeps it even, calm. If she loses control, he will too, and he's already about to snap.

'Yer _lover._'

'I don't have a lover, Shifty. You know I don't.'

He slams the book to the floor. 'Do I? _Do I?'_ He leaps up, and it takes every ounce of her willpower not to shrink back. He's quite a short man, but he still manages to tower over her, toppling on his unsteady feet.

'Shifty, give me my book.'

'Why else would you _leave_ me? Why else would you _hurt_ me like this? _Abandon_ me, when I- ne-e-eed you?' He stumbles towards her, falls, grabs her ankle. She gasps, he holds it tightly, constricting the blood flow to her foot, trying to pull her off-balance, and she staggers, gripping the mantel of the fireplace with one hand.

'Oh, and you can talk about _other lovers_ and about _hurt_, can you, Shifty? How many times did I put up with it- with you? When you went off to who-knows-where, comin' 'ome at all hours, and I _know_ you 'ad other women_._'

'That's because of me _past, me past_,' he wails, and it's almost pitiful, and she almost wants to stoop, stroke his hair, comfort him, except he's drunk, and it's frightening, and it's for her own good that she's breaking this off. 'It's all me past, I was screwed over too much when I was a kid, and me mother…'

'Was a friendly soul, she was,' she's heard this so many times, and though she's let it go too many times, she knows it shouldn't qualify as an excuse. 'And she 'ad an 'undred different lovers, and you were left all alone- that doesn't 'ave to affect the way you are now, Shifty. Yer past doesn't 'ave to affect the choices you make now, unless you _let it.'_

She's startled by how deep her own words are. She never comes out with rubbish like that. Sounds like the sort of thing Adrian Boswell would have put in a poem, once upon a time.

Shifty, too, is startled by the comment. He lies there on the floor like a sack, looking up at her through watery eyes- watery from the drink; Shifty doesn't have enough real emotion to actually cry- and not saying anything.

'Give me my post-office book.'

'No!' He gets back up again, using various bits of furniture as support as he climbs back into the vertical, holding it above her head, out of her reach, waving it tauntingly.

'Shifty,' she finally masters the warning tone, 'give it to me.'

'No! You'll take it and leave me!'

'I've already left you, Shifty- tryin' to stop me takin' me things isn't gonna change that.'

'Then you can't have it!' He manages to run across the room- _how_, she doesn't think she'll ever know, given how inebriated he is, and then he's at the window, trying to open it.

'Shifty,' she warns. 'Don't.'

'What if I changed?' he still keeps tight hold of her savings book, keeps trying to tug the window open, and somehow she's got to get it from him before he throws it out, or all hope'll be lost. She'll never be able to find it again, not if he drops it from this height.

'Changed?'

'I can do it, I can! I can be a better man, I'll take back the stuff I nicked…'

The entire contents of the flat, then.

'Don't say that, Shifty. Not again.' She puts one hand to her forehead in exasperation, because he's trying every trick he knows to get her to relent, and she can't, she just can't, not when she's come this far. She shudders, almost on the verge of frustrated tears. 'You say that every other _week_, and I just can't keep doin' this, fritterin' away years of me life waitin' for you ter keep yer word!'

'I'll do it, you know!' He's completely out of it, changing from pleas to threats without any sort of segue. 'I'll get rid of it!'

He doesn't know what he's doing. She takes this to be the result of his alcohol-addled mind.

He still hasn't got the window open, though. Shifty's dexterity isn't what it usually is, and he's forgotten to undo the latch. He shakes the frame, and it shudders, but still doesn't budge. More desperately: 'I'll _do it!_'

'Go on, then.' She folds her arms. 'Do it.'

He tries; she has to give him credit for _trying_. Probably the most effort he's ever made to fulfil a promise. But he still doesn't remember the latch, still can't do it.

He howls in frustration, throws the book across the room, and Martina dives for it. It lands on the floor, open and face-down, and the pages are all creased over, but she's got it. It's okay. She's going to be all right.

Now might be the ideal time to make her exit. Martina makes for the door, and he flops right back across the room and grabs at her.

'I can change! I can change!'

'You always say that, and you never do.'

'I will, I _will_, don't leave me, Martina, don't go…' he's clinging onto her leg.

'Let go of me, Shifty. You're drunk.'

'I won't let you…'

'Shifty, go and sober up.'

'I _LOVE YOU_!'

But he doesn't. Not really. He's just used to her, that's all. And she doesn't blame him for wanting her to stay- after all, she's always been the one that works, that supports him, that provides him with somewhere to live, cooks for him, does _everything_ for him. She's the only one who's been stupid enough to stay with him after she's discovered what he's like- the rest run a mile.

She's good old reliable Martina, can always be counted on to take him in after all else fails. But he doesn't love her. Not really. He just doesn't want her to go.

'Stop it.' She yanks her leg away, and it doesn't take much for him to let go, not when he's like this.

'Don't you love me anymore, Martina?'

She looks down at him, and is immediately filled with pity. This is what 'love' does to you, she realises. Martina's occupation involves not pitying anyone, she's trained her whole life, become a master at seeing through acts intended to get sympathy, get her to give in. And she never falls for them. But because she loves Shifty, or because she did once, and she's still somewhat attached, it still hurts to see him in such a pathetic state. It almost makes her want to reach out, comfort him.

_Of course I still love you,_ she wants to say, or even _you'll get over this, you'll be all right, Shifty._

She doesn't say anything.

She might have loved him once. But she can't live like this anymore. And what's more, she won't.

It's the hardest thing she's ever done, but she turns and walks away.

* * *

**Oh, Martina, it's hard now, but it'll get better, you'll see.**

**Don't hate me for this horrible chapter. It was probably one of the most painfully terrible things to write. I'm still not sure about how I wrote Shifty, especially at the end- I didn't want to make Martina look heartless but I wanted to illustrate how hard it was for her to leave. Urgh this fic is doing horrible things to my head.**

**Preview for the next chapter (a jump forward, and a fair bit of happiness to counteract the angst):**

_For many years now, Joey's had a dream. True, this dream has changed a bit since the olden days, but he hasn't given up on it._


	3. With your charm and my academics: 1994-5

**Forward again, though not so far forward in time as the first chapter. And some Joetina fluff to counteract all the depression in the last chapter, although it's not all happy- there are still some hitches to be overcome...**

**Roxy's son is mentioned in this. I can't remember if he had a name in the show, so I've just called him Oscar for now. Just because. If I rewatch stuff and find out he has an actual name, I'll come back and change it, but for now I can't be bothered.**

**This chapter includes references to the daydream Joey had in series 5 episode 6, and to the joke proposal he made to Martina in the very first episode of the show.**

**And like I said, I'm withholding details of how Joey and Martina got together til the final chapter.**

* * *

**With your charm and my academics**

** Late 1994- Early 1995**

_In some ways, it's all a game. And Joey's got no intention of letting Martina win. He may not have to 'let' her, though, because she plays with a skill that rivals his own._

_~X~X_

It's in Martina's pigeon-hole of a flat that Joey awakes today, in a bed that barely fits its allocated space, all the furniture and various trimmings and trappings jam-packed into an area that in its entirety probably wouldn't have filled his Grandad's parlour. There's virtually no space to walk here, nor to sit, or breathe, even. When they move they're all but on top of each other, and Joey's never been claustrophobic, but he still finds it uncomfortable.

He can't complain, though, because it isn't as if they've somewhere better they could go. What with Martina's stubborn belief that hotels are 'cheap', no matter how exorbitant the establishment itself is, and the fact that he's now back with his family in Kelsall Street, where privacy doesn't exist, they're not exactly spoilt for choice.

Joey stares at the ceiling above him, counting the stains and the damp spots and the little patches where the hideous cream paint's peeled away, and yet again he wonders how she can stand it, being here all the time. He can't, and he only visits a few times a week. Granted, when she'd left Shifty she'd been anxious to get out, quick, to get away and get settled somewhere that held no memories of him, and she'd had to take whatever was available. He understands that. It's the fact that even now she has no intention of moving somewhere nicer, can't see any point in it. He's offered her money, even offered to pay her rent if she'll get herself a better flat, but this course of action always insults her, and anyway, she always tells him, she's perfectly all right where she is. She's _settled._

Martina doesn't like change. Never has, and that, in many cases, has been her downfall. It's why she still sticks with the worst job known to man, even though every day Joey sees new opportunities for positions that might suit her better. It's why she let Shifty back into her life so many times, stayed with him even when their whole existence together was a mire of depression and hopelessness. It's why she was so reluctant to let Joey into her life in the first place.

Joey wonders what she'd think if she knew about the changes he's envisioning right now. He's her polar opposite in that respect. Once Joey has an idea, he's anxious to get it up and running, once he's certain of an alteration he wants to make, he wants it made straight away.

And that's why he's already letting himself have these ideas, these dangerous thoughts. They haven't even lasted a full year yet, and there are still things to be sorted, discussions to be had, a painful past at each of their backs to leave behind. They're really only at the start of the 'fresh start' they've made with each other, and Martina's still adapting, still, at the odd moment, slipping back into the old ways and calling him 'Mister'. It's far too soon to be thinking about serious commitment and Joey fancies Martina's reaction will be dreadful- priceless, but dreadful- if he springs his idea on her while she's still coming to terms with what they have now.

Joey can scarce believe the turn of events himself. It's only two years since The Great Heartbreak, since the life he'd spent so many years dreaming up and working to build collapsed around him, since the woman all his romantic affection had been invested in for so long, had all left a gaping void in his heart. And not just her, but he'd lost the lad, too- a child he'd loved as his own. Even thinking his name hurts now, so he doesn't.

And yet he's already built this life for himself, for Martina, for _them_, in such a short time, and is already planning out their next steps.

Martina stirs, the arm slung across his shoulders stretching, fingers flexing just below his ear, and Joey smiles. Watching Martina wake is well worth the nights spent in this cluttered little flat- the way her eyelids flutter, and the way she stubbornly screws her eyes more tightly closed for a moment, refusing to accept the coming of the morning before sighing and succumbing to it- it's all adorable, and he loves more than anything to help her along into the conscious state with a few kisses. He turns his head, only to find he's missed the show, her eyes are already open, large blue irises studying his face with intense concentration.

'Enjoyin' the view?'

'You 'ad that look on your face,' she says, rather than answering the question. 'You're plottin' somethin', aren't you?'

'Ah, you should know me well enough by now to know I'm _always_ plotting somethin',' he replies, beaming. 'My brilliant mind is always at work.'

She arches an eyebrow. 'Brilliant mind?'

'Well, I _am_ a bit of a genius, didn't you know?

'Bit of an egotist, more like.'

'Oh, you. That charming wit of yours.' He beams at the sleepy-yet-snide look on her face and kisses her. 'You know, with your charm and my academics, we could live in Gateacre.'

He's said that to her before. Then it was in jest. Now it's serious.

'Gateacre, Joey, is fer rich people.'

He grins wolfishly. 'Like me.'

'Oh, rich now, are yer?' She sits up. 'I think the Social Security will be interested to know that, _Mister_ Boswell.'

'You'd grass on the love of your life?'

'If I thought the so-called 'love of me life' was up ter no good, then yes, I would. I've never stopped bein' out to get you.'  
'What if I bribed you to keep your mouth shut?'

She pushes her hair off her face, folds her hands in her lap. 'And what would you bribe me with, pray?'

'With a great big house in Gateacre to call your very own.'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'I _told_ you, Joey, I _like me flat._ There's nothin' wrong with it._'_

Joey looks at the patch of dry rot on the ceiling but refrains from passing comment.

'No, no, I didn't mean like that,' he takes both her hands in his, swinging them about a little until she glares at him to stop. 'It's just, I hate to think of you trapped in here- there's barely enough room to breathe…and don't get me wrong, bein' with me fam-i-ly is wonderful, it's just, _well_, not the same as havin' somewhere of me own, and…'

He takes a breath. 'Perhaps, since you and I are so..._close_,' he demonstrates said closeness with a kiss, 'we could think about findin' alternative housin'. Together.'

'In Gateacre.'

'Naturally,' he grins, 'after all, it's the Boswell motto: the best things in life are expensive.'

'_I_ thought the motto was 'us and ours'. That's the one you preached to me the other day, when you tried ter claim fer that _ridiculous_ wheelchair for yer Grandad.'

'We have lots of mottos, sweetheart. Lots of mottos. That's what comes from havin' a big fam-i-ly, and all of 'em clever at…'

'At what?' He senses she's looking for an opening to catch him out about some scheme or other.

'At…comin' up with lots o' mottos,' he finishes with a blithe smile, and she tuts and rolls her eyes.

'What'd you say, then, lovely lady?'

'Movin' in together…' she hums, 'bit of a leap, isn't it?'

It's been nearly a year. Joey furrows his brow. If she thinks _that_'s a leap, she's not going to like what he's got to say next.

'We-ell, that's not exactly what I 'ad in mind,' he tightens his grip on her hands, 'I was thinkin' more along the lines of you marryin' me.'

Martina's eyes double in size.

'I mean, fair go, sweetheart, I did just spring this on you- I'll understand if you need time to think about it-'

'I don't need ter think about it,' she interrupts.

Joey's smile stretches across his face. 'You don't?'

'No,' she snatches her hands back, 'because I'm _not_ gonna marry you.'

That instantly puts a damp sponge on his hope. The smile's still fixed on his face, but he can't feel it. A strangled laugh escapes him. He can't have heard right.

'No?'

'No.' He _has_ heard right.

'Oh.' He recoils. _'Oh.'_

'Well,' she drops her hands to her lap, 'now that _unpleasantness_ is over with, d'you want a cup of tea?'

Joey just stares. 'I don't understand you!' He's said it so many times- God put women on this earth to baffle. But Martina could out-baffle every other baffling woman in creation, sometimes. He leaps off the bed, paces across the room.

'How can you just go from sayin' you won't marry me to…to normal again!'

She lets out a hiss of breath. 'Joey, come back here and _sit down_,' she commands.

He draws closer and she grabs hold of his wrists, dragging him back to the bed and pushing him into a seated position.

'Now _listen_, Joey Boswell,' she says crossly, 'you know full well that I love you- after all you put me through ter make me admit it, you'd _better_ know full well that I love you.'

'But then-'

'And you know _full well_,' she continues, daring him to interrupt her again, 'that I want ter be with you. Don't even ask me why.'

'Why?' Joey asks cheekily.

She sends a chill through him with her stare and he obediently wipes the rebellious smile from his face.

'Okay, okay, sweetheart. Carry on.'

'But I don't want ter marry you.'

'Because it's too soon?'

'It's not a question of _too soon_, it's a question of _not ever._'

Joey's more hurt than he lets on, but he still manages to make a joke out of it. He puts one hand across his chest.

'Well. You have wounded my ego, sweetheart.'

Martina raises her eyes to heaven. 'If only.'

'I mean it,' he tilts his head, 'I flatter meself to think that I would make the most magnificent, the most _amazin'_ husband this world has ever seen.' He pauses. 'This time around.'

Martina's mouth twitches.

'And you have cut that thought down like a great, lonesome tree, topplin' in the woods of…'

'All right, enough with yer heartrendin' imagery,' she shakes her head, 'I can't _bear_ any more of it. My tear ducts can't cope with your sad little stories.' Sarcasm. She's unmoved.

'Why not, then?'

Martina exhales through her nose. 'Because I am never gettin' married in me life, that's why.'

And that's all she says on the matter.

_Too soon_, Joey thinks, _that's all it is, really._ And he does suppose hurts like Shifty go deep. To some extent, he's still the-boyfriend-after-Shifty, and his cousin's such a horrendous benchmark to be compared to. Martina's never really gotten over what happened- it's not that she'd still prefer Shifty back, it's more that after the way he treated her, after their painful separation, she's not all that comfortable with the idea of letting her guard down, with letting someone fully into her life again. Once Shifty had been embedded there, it took a lot of effort on her part to get him out, and that was after she'd endured years of heartbreak, stubbornly staying put, because stubbornly staying put and standing firm in her decisions is something he's discovered Martina likes to do.

And so, though she's let herself love Joey, despite her worries about the risks of getting involved with someone, grudgingly accepted thus far his unwavering devotion and fidelity (neither of which she had with Shifty), she's still wary enough, and still stubborn enough, to be quite adamant that they keep things casual indefinitely.

But Joey knows they'd be happy, if she'd take just one more little risk and let this be permanent.

* * *

For many years now, Joey's had a dream.

He's dreamed of a home of his very own, a family of his very own- a happy little life in a white house in Gateacre, where he'd come home to smiles and kisses and children on the lawn. He daydreams about this frequently. True, his daydream has changed a little since the olden days.

For many years, Roxy featured quite prominently in it, always waiting on the drive to greet him, then, as their relationship changed, her little son, Oscar, started to play a role, too. Joey imagined himself picking the lad up and swinging him around, the two of them collapsing on the lawn, laughing together. Even when Joey's marriage to Roxy was at its bleakest, when it was breaking down, when he'd look at both of them and wonder how long he had before he never saw them again, he kept this daydream in his mind, and with it the feeble hope that he could still fix things and have all this one day.

Joey's divorce changed his mind for a while. When Roxy went, so did the dream. He went two years without it.

And then, of course, he walked back into the Department of Social Security one day, with the intention of going back to his old life, and Martina was waiting for him behind the counter, like she always had been back in the day. And something happened.

He looked at her and something was different. And before he knew it, he was falling in love with her, and she with him, albeit after a shaky start, and when this happened, the dream came careening back to Joey, as if it had been merely let fly on a rubber band, not thrown away completely.

It's changed, of course.

The dream now consists not of Roxy, a family and a house, but Martina, a family and a house. And she's not smiling at him and greeting him, she's demanding where he's been, what time does he call this. But she's not angry, no, it's part of one of their many games, and they'll engage in a spirited verbal competition over it for hours to come.

It's a wonderful dream, a happy dream.

And he wants it to come true more than ever, now.

Joey's soppy at heart, he thinks. This must be what comes from being born into such a loving family, with so many brothers and sisters around you. The idea of a home and family is something ingrained into him, something that he's been raised to want out of life.

And he wants it badly. Always has.

And somehow, in some way, he wants to convince Martina that she might, conceivably, in some part of her brain, want it too.

* * *

Joey goes to Adrian for advice.

He chooses Adrian over his other siblings because, although he eloped in Scotland with Irenee at the same time Joey did with Roxy, his marriage has been infinitely more happy and fulfilling. Being the hopeless romantic that he is, Adrian writes a new poem for Irenee every week, and though she always seems bored by the artistic side of his brain, prefers the simple things in life, all these sonnets and ballads and declarations of love must have some effect on her, because they've got two children already and are expecting a third.

That's what Joey thinks of the situation, anyway. And all that aside, Adrian's the least likely to laugh at him.

His brother contemplates for a long time before he gives him an answer.

'Why don't you get her a ring? A proper engagement ring- make a proper gesture, instead of just matter-of-factly asking whether she'd like to get married. Make it all _meaningful_- soft lighting and silken kisses, a moment that can't be forgotten.._._'

Beside him, Irenee rolls her eyes and pats his hand. 'You got him at a bad time, Joey. He's working on a book of romantic poetry. He was bound to come out with something like that.'

'Well maybe, son, maybe,' Joey says, but he's frowning. Martina doesn't respond well to romantic gestures, not anymore. Another way Shifty's damaged her mind.

But the straightforward approach has already failed, so maybe a bit more of a grand gesture is just what's in order here.

* * *

And so it is that, at about one in the morning one night, he slides out from her arms, goes and retrieves the ring box he's been keeping in the glove compartment of his Jag. Perhaps he'll leave it somewhere for her to find, he decides- only where? Her flat is tiny, and though she's fastidious about cleaning it the lack of size means there's still always clutter everywhere, because there just isn't _room_ for everything. And he doesn't want it to be lost forever. It has to be somewhere fairly accessible- but not so blatantly obvious that she'll come upon it instantly and get mad.

He'll gently build up the idea of marriage to her, and then, as she's getting used to the idea, coming round, she'll come across it, and that'll clinch it.

Hopefully.

Joey sits down on his side of the bed, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle open the drawer of the bedside table without making too much noise. It's crammed in so close between the bed and the wall that the drawer scrapes and squeals its way out, and then Martina's waking, rolling over and staring at him through squinty eyes.

'What's that?' she asks sleepily, eyeing the box in his hand. She reaches over and turns the lamp on.

'Oh, nothin',' Joey says, getting up from the bed and holding out of reach just as she scrambles up and makes a lunge for it.

'Gimme.'

'It's not _for_ you.'

'Then who is it for? That's what I'd like to know.'

Joey sighs. 'Oh, okay, you win. It's for…well, it's for _us,_ I suppose. But you mightn't like it, so I'll just put it away…'

'Give it to me,' she demands, more alert now, and before he has time to think she's tackled him to the mattress, pinning him with as much force as she can while she uses both hands to wrestle the box from his grasp.

'Let _go_, Joey. Don't think I won't hurt you.'

'You don't need to see it just yet-'

Too late. She's snatched it from him, and he sees her face turn to surprise as she opens the box and cops a load of its contents.

'What's this?'

He chews on the inside of his cheek. It should be obvious.

'Joey, what _is_ this?'

Doesn't she know? Doesn't she realise?

She sounds angry now. 'What-is-_this?'_

Joey finds his voice, smiles naughtily, though her reaction upsets him somewhat. 'You're a clever girl, sweetheart. What do you think it is?'

'If I didn't know better,' her voice is dangerously calm, and that's worse than if she'd merely shouted, 'I'd say it was an engagement ring.'

'It is.'

'I thought I'd made me views very clear on this.'

He groans, pinches the bridge of his nose. 'Yeah, but sweetheart…'

'This, Joey,' she waves the box in the air, 'is a _pathetic_ attempt ter get me to change me mind. You can't bribe me like this- you should know that by now.' She takes another look at the ring, then tosses the box aside. '_And_ it's hideous.'

Joey's affronted. He'd chosen it very carefully, spent far too much on it.

'What's wrong with it?'

'_Look_ at it! It looks like a bloody golf ball!'

'Well, all right, maybe the stone's big, but…'

'Big? I'd need a support fer me arm if I was wearin' this!' She pauses. 'How much did this set yer back?'

He's ashamed to say.

'Sevenhundredandfiftyquid,' he mutters into his shoulder.

Martina lets out a snort. 'You'd better pray like _mad_ they'll do a refund on it.'

'I thought all women liked expensive jewellery.'

'You can carry somethin' to excess, you know. 'Expensive' doesn't always mean 'better'. And that ring is about the most untasteful thing I've ever seen in me life.'

This is a deliberate blow, he knows. Joey's always prided himself on his taste and style. Maybe, though, he thinks, he did go a bit overboard on this ring- but that was the desperation clouding his mind.

'I'll exchange it for a smaller one…'

'I don't _want_ a smaller one!'

'Then what _do_ you want?!'

'Nothing!' She snaps. 'I don't want _anythin'!'_

'Not even me?'

'Oh, of _course _I want _you_- oh, why are you makin' this so difficult?!' She cries out in frustration, flops back against the bed. 'Why can't you just leave things as they are?'

Joey shuffles up close, lays down beside her. Martina's still and silent for a while, staring up at the ceiling and refusing to meet his eye.

He reaches over, strokes her shoulder. Martina sighs, turns on her side to face him. Her face is pensive, her eyes clouded with a sadness he doesn't know the cause of.

'I would if I could, Joey.'

He blinks. She touches his arm.

'I'd marry yer if I could,' she repeats. 'But I can't.'

'Got some secret husband hidin' out in Europe, have you?' he teases, but she's not in the mood. Not now.

'Look, it's taken me…no, I don't think I even_ have_ gotten past everythin' that 'appened with Shifty, even now. It hurt so much- I just don't think I could ever…'

'Hey,' he says. 'I've been hurt too. I understand. It took me longer than you to realise Roxy was no good for me- and by that time she'd already left me for someone else. I didn't even get to make the decision to better me life on me own- I was forced into it. You did.'

She nods.

'And just because we've 'ad some bad experiences,' he runs his fingers through her hair, working to unravel a knot he's found in it, 'doesn't mean all long-term relationships- all marriages- are like that, does it, sweetheart?'

'But my life's been _all_ bad experiences. One after the other.'

'Not all,' Joey reminds her. 'Remember how ridiculous you got when you realised you loved me? You took a chance on me, though, didn't you- and have I let you down or given you any grief?'

'No,' she admits, and then gives him a wry smile, 'no more than you _usually_ did, anyway.'

'Well, there you are, you see,' he presses his lips to hers, coaxes her into a kiss. 'I love you.'

'I love you too,' she says, sighing heavily. 'But I want ter keep things as they are now.'

'Okay, sweetheart,' he desists, resigned to the fact that this proposal's been a dead loss. 'If that's what you want.'

Martina yawns. 'Take the ring back, Joey. And don't ever let me see it again.' Back to her stern self- this indicates the conversation is over.

She shuts her eyes, and her breathing evens out after a while. Joey watches her sleep and thinks.

She's just so stubborn, and just too untrusting for her own good. All her reasons make sense, but they're not _fair_, they're just not fair. He's never going to give her pain or heartbreak. Or at any rate, he'll do his utmost not to.

He'll always be there for her- he just needs to make her see it.

He doesn't give up.

* * *

The Social Security building is packed, which doesn't exactly bode well for his mission. After all, forty odd heads turning to stare at you can't be good for a private, life-changing sort of moment, but Joey goes ahead with it anyway, because the other day an idea came to him, one which he thinks just might get results.

Joey and Martina work, Joey realises, because of the competitive dynamic between them, more than anything else. At first, when they'd first gotten together, he'd fretted that perhaps they'd merely clung to each other, both the victims of terrible failed relationships, bonded by mutual unhappiness. But he'd quickly chased the thought away, because nearly every conversation they have reminds him just why they fit together.

Everything, _everything_ they say is part of a little game. They test and stretch each other's minds, always looking for a way to go one better than the other, always looking for a way to win the argument, even when there's no argument to win. They taunt and tease and put each other down, but they know deep down it's all playful, all in jest, and they like it. They enjoy the battles. And somehow, though he can't explain why, the more they fight against one another, the closer they become. It doesn't make sense, but it's what they have, and it works.

And the arena for the most spectacular of their battles is always the DHSS- for obvious reasons. He will always be a Boswell and she will always be a DHSS lady, and as long as these two facts remain constant, there will always be a good game to be had over the partition, with benefit fraud and excuses and regulations and cheats as pieces on the chessboard.

It's where they work best.

So it might be a lucky place for him. Third time lucky. That'd be great.

'Greetings!' he begins as always, dropping himself into the chair with a resplendently stylish manoeuvre.

'What do you want, Mister Boswell?' She may be in love with him, but her attitude toward him in this building will never change. No matter. He plays along.

'A great many things, sweetheart. As you know, I do have a large fam-i-ly's needs to see to.'

'Go on.' She doesn't look up from whatever she's writing.

'I will require from you, my dear little DHSS lady, a form for me Grandad- now eighty-one and frailer than ever, he will require a little help with mobility, and hence we will be purchasing a wheelchair.'

She's about to make a retort, to start up the banter, but he ploughs on.

'I will also need you to present me with a form for our Billy- he's gettin' a new van for his business, after his old one sadly packed it in and could not be resuscitated- oh, and one more thing … your hand in marriage.'

Martina stops short. She raises her head, seething annoyance written all over her face.

'NEXT!'

Well, so much for that idea.

Joey is pushed from his chair by a cranky middle-aged lady who wants to complain about her washing line, he has to leave, and he realises with a sigh that the moment has passed.

* * *

'If she doesn't wanna marry you,' Billy says, his mouth stuffed with at least three Brussels sprouts, bits of which he's spitting as he talks, 'why do you keep askin' 'er?'

It's only the two of them and Nellie, these days. The others have their own lives to live, their own dinners with their own families.

Joey scoffs. 'And 'ow many times did you ask Julie?'

'That was different,' Billy defends. 'She 'ad my baby.'

'Oh- so in your opinion, you 'ave to have 'ad babies before you can get married?'

'Well, no, but…how d'you think it looked, havin' a baby and not bein' married? It was embarrassing!'

'So you asked her to save your own reputation, is that it, son?' Joey's irritated, and hence his words are blunt this evening.

'Because I… I love 'er!' Billy says, then realises and changes it, 'I _loved_ her. At the time, you know!' He laughs uncomfortably.

'And I wanted to be with her, to have…a life, and a family, and it would be all nice and…together…'

That's probably one of the most sensible things Billy's ever said.

'Well, those are my thoughts exactly, son,' Joey says. 'That's what I want.'

'That's what you wanted with Roxy, too!' says Billy tactlessly, opening an old wound without knowing what he's doing. 'Look how that ended! Both of us got divorces, didn't we? Stay away from marriage, that's what I've learned.'

'Don't pester Joey about Roxy, Billy!' Nellie's returned from bringing Grandad's tray at the worst of times. 'You know how hard it is for him to get over that!'

'Well he must be over it,' Billy doesn't hesitate to spill Joey's private troubles over the table for all to see, 'he's asked Martina to marry 'im three times!'

'Bill-y!' Joey shouts.

Nellie looks from one to the other, eventually settling on Joey.

'Oh,' she says, and it's not in a sympathetic way, 'not again, Joey! Not so soon! You're leaping from marriage to marriage like a tree frog! You'll have had seven wives by the time you're dead.'

'That's called bigamy,' says Billy, and gets glares from Joey and Nellie both.

'Look, Mam, I'm not gonna end up with seven wives! It's just…when you're sure of somethin', you know…' he can't quite finish the sentiment. 'Anyway, it's not gonna happen. She keeps turnin' me down. Doesn't wanna marry me.' He plants his elbow on the table and rests his head on his fist.

His Mam sighs loudly. 'What d'you keep askin' her for if she doesn't wanna marry you?'

Oh, it's no use talking to these two.

* * *

'I love you,' Joey growls through his teeth, his lips finding Martina's neck. 'I love you.'

'Shut up, Joey,' she grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks, tugging his mouth back up to hers.

'I love you so much,' he trails kisses over her jaw, back down over her throat.

'I know,' she shuts her eyes, her breath hitches, _'I know.'_

'Marry me.'

She freezes, muscles in her arms tensing as she puts her hands against his chest. 'Get off me.'

Another needle of hurt plunges into his vein. 'Why not, Martina? _Please.'_

'_No_.' She shoves him. 'Get _off_ me.'

'Martina…'

'_Off._' She wriggles away, across to the other side of the sofa, and folds her arms.

Joey sighs, disappointment clouding his vision. 'I'm sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have said that.'

She pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them, staring off into space. Joey studies her. The idea upsets her so much, and he just can't see why. A little apprehension might be understandable, maybe, but she's acting as if he's suggested he murder her.

He knows Martina's been hurt, that she doesn't dive into things now. That's fine. That's okay. He's accepted that. He thinks back to when he first told her he loved her, all the hurtful words she used to try and drive him away, determined that she wouldn't start anything up with anyone again. She's stubborn like that, still thinks that pretending not to care means she can get away without any sort of hardship, ever- even when it's been proven to her so many times that that never is and never will be the case. It took her so long to even admit she loved him too, and when she did she immediately started laying out all these rules to ensure there were no unnecessary upheavals.

And Joey's accepted all that because he knows it must be hard for her, knows that everything that's happened with Shifty, everything that's happened before him, everything in her life has been fraught with tragedy, and she's justifiably wary.

But they're happy now. And he's made every effort to make sure she knows, at all times that he loves her, that he's there for her and always will be, he's not going anywhere unless she decides to make the break.

It isn't as if he hasn't been hurt too, though she forgets that far too often. If anyone should be shy of marriage it's him, after a failed year and a half with Roxy that ended up with her kicking him out, taking the kid and what was left of his hopes and dreams. He still cries about that often enough, when he dwells on it for long periods of time, but he's still gotten over it well enough to get on with his life, has found new and unexpected happiness with her. It's certainly not what he's expected from life, but now he's got it, this unexpected happiness, he wants to hold onto it.

She loves him. He knows she does. But to her, commitment still equals pain. He'll have to teach her a new equation.

'I'm sorry,' he repeats, even though he's not. He shuffles closer, kisses her right on the cheekbone. She screws up her face.

'I know it intimidates you, the idea of bein' married to the most handsome and charmin' man of your acquaintance.' It might not be the most sensitive approach, but having four younger siblings has taught him that sometimes the best way to cure an unwarranted bad mood is to use humour.

Martina's jaw drops. Her head rotates on her neck, and then she's giving him a look he knows well. 'I don't know where ter start on that sentence.'

'Admittin' it's true, are you?'

'_Most certainly not_. You can't be serious! _Me,_ bein' intimidated by the likes o' _you? _Not in a million years, Mister Boswell!'

Back on the right track, then. 'T'other half's true.'

She scoffs. 'Er- handsome and charmin'? _You_?'

'Well, I think the evidence speaks for itself,' he gestures up and down his body, and gets a laugh out of her.

'When was the last time you went to the optician?'

She's no longer upset, and Joey feels it's safe to rub her shoulders, put his arm round her, kiss her lightly.

But he won't push her again- not for a while. He's learned his lesson.

* * *

It's overcast outside, but somehow pleasantly so, and they take a walk along the dockside after Joey picks her up from work, the breeze in their hair and the cawing of birds providing background noise.

'We could still get that house in Gateacre.'

She frowns. 'This isn't _another_ proposal, is it?'

'No, sweetheart, don't fret. I won't push you about that.' He sits down on the bench, and she joins him.

It's a little chilly now, he sees her rub her hands together and he grabs them, clasping them in his to warm them.

'I'm not gonna push you about that,' Joey repeats, 'but you said yourself you still want to be with me, didn't you? It's not such a big leap as marriage, but…you know, it's still commitment.'

She looks at him. 'I don't know.'

'Martina, I want to give you _something_,' he squeezes her hands tighter, 'I wanna show you _somehow_ just how much you mean to me- how much _us _ means to me. To show you it's forever, if you want it to be.'

'Forever doesn't 'appen,' Martina stares at something a few feet to his left, 'everyone in my life, Joey, _everyone_ I've loved has either abandoned me or hurt me in the end. I'm not puttin' meself on the line only for somethin' like that to happen yet again.'

'_I_ won't.'

'I don't know that, do I?' She shoves her hands in her pockets, crosses her ankles tightly, an instinctive curling-up action she tends to do when she remembers the past.

'You _do_ know that,' Joey says firmly. 'I'm not Shifty, and I'm not your brother. I have been brought up in a family so close that stickin' together, in my mind, is the best thing you can do. I am the one and only Joey Boswell, who you yourself have said is impossible to shake off. I will hang around you until you get so annoyed with me bein' there that you have to dispose of me body in the river to get rid of me.'

She laughs then, and he knows he's said something right.

'If you knew how many times I've thought o' disposin' your body in the river over the years…'

'You lie. You were _ever_ so fond of me, even right back at the beginning.'

'Oh, I was, was I?'

'That little flirty smile you used to give me, I remember it well…'

'I never gave you a _flirty smile!_'

'Oh you did, sweetheart, you did. Practically every visit, right up until you first started seein' Shifty,' he freezes, realises maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. He keeps going, hoping she'll let it slip. 'Sometimes even after.'

'If I was smilin', it was because I 'ad a plan to catch you out.'

'Ah, yes, the way you used to say 'I'm out to get you, Mister Boswell,' with that minxish look on your face…sounded positively _seductive!'_

'It did not!'

'Are you honestly sayin', sweetheart- can you look me in the eye and tell me you weren't wildly attracted to me?'

She looks him in the eye, trying her utmost, credit where credit is due, to keep a poker face. 'I have never, Mister Boswell,' she says, 'been attracted to that bloated ego o' yours.' But she's blushing.

'You didn't answer me question. I wasn't askin' about me ego, now, was I?' He nudges her lightly in the ribs.

Martina flinches and immediately folds her arms around her middle. Joey frowns at the reflex. And then he realises, and he grins.

'You're ticklish.'

'No I'm not.' But she's inched away from him.

His grin increases threefold. 'Yes, you _are._ Oh, I can use this to my advantage, sunshine!'

'Don't you dare.'

He pounces.

'Stop it!' she says with a squeal that's high-pitched and completely unlike her. She squirms and splutters and tears of laughter start to roll down her face. 'You'll-regret-this-,' each word is punctuated by a laugh, '-Joey!'

Joey pauses. 'Go on- admit it- admit you fancied me.'

'Never, Mister Boswell!'

He resumes.

'All right! All right! I did!'

Joey lets go of her, satisfied in the knowledge that he's won this round, and she collapses against his shoulder, still laughing.

'I knew you fancied me back then.'

'Oi,' she's still getting her breath back, 'confessions under duress don't hold up in a court o' law, you know.'

'Oh, you would have told me one way or another…'

Her laughter slowly subsides, and she sighs, gazing into the distance, her face turning serious again.

'I meant what I said though,' Joey says gently. 'I'd never abandon you.'

Martina turns around, and he can see a conflict waging on her face, as if she's on the throes of a life-changing decision.

She takes both his hands in hers, looks up at him, her eyes big and blue and trusting.

'Marry me,' she says.

He jumps. 'Say _what?'_

'You 'eard what I said, _Mister Boswell_.' She raises her eyebrows, and she's gone from soft and gentle to taunting in three seconds flat.

'What happened to you were never gettin' married ever in your life?' he smirks, though his insides are all having a champagne party. She's changed her mind. _She's changed her mind._

'I might be willin' to reconsider that- so long as you behave yerself.'

Joey wants to jump up and down, like Billy so frequently did when he was five and found out he was getting sweets. She wants to marry him. The family life dream floods back into his system.

But instead of letting on just how excited he is, he keeps his cool. Even this proposal is one of their little battles, their little games, and he's still going to try to win it.

'_Well_, I might need to consider this…' he scratches his chin, trying to come over as thoughtful, putting on the voice of a girlish heroine from a '30s film, 'I mean, sweetheart, what can I say? This is all so _sudden…'_

She thwacks him. 'I could change me mind, you know. Be thankful I've deigned ter do this at all.'

'Oh, I am, Martina, I am- but really, is that best proposal you could come up with, sweetheart?' He nudges her. 'Go on. Do it properly. On one knee.'

'Oh, yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Well, let me tell you, Joey Boswell, the day I grovel on me knees in front o' you will be the day you see yer potential breakfast bacon grow wings.'

'I don't eat _bacon_, dear lady. You _know_ I'm a vegetarian.'

'Well then, the day hell freezes over. I trust you're familiar with _that_ expression?'

Joey merely laughs, takes her face in his hands. 'Oh, go on. A quick grovel won't hurt…I won't ever bring it up again. I promise I won't tease you about it forever after…_much_.'

'Hmm, no, you know, I think I've gone off the idea again.' She gets up, makes to walk away.

Joey reacts fast. 'No, wait, Martina!' He flings himself off the bench dramatically, lands on his knees and feels an unpleasant scrape- he knows they'll graze something spectacular, even through leather trousers, knows he's lucky they didn't both dislocate. 'Of _course_ I'll marry you! Don't reconsider!'

She turns back, takes him in, the smugness of victory written all over her face. She's managed to win the game once again.

'Oh, stop yer beggin',' she says, putting a hand on the top of his head patronisingly. 'I'll let you marry me.'

* * *

And Joey does not intend to give her chance to change her mind. He's got an engagement ring on her (a new one, smaller this time) within a day. Martina makes an obligatory grumble about its gaudiness, how much it cost, how unnecessary it is. But when she thinks he's not looking, he catches her admiring it.

_Score Joey Boswell_.

Within another day, he's gone and gotten a lot of housing brochures and deposited them on her desk.

She looks up from her forms. 'What's all this?'

He winks. 'Have a look.'

She narrows her eyes, slides them towards herself across the counter with a hesitant suspicion.

'These are 'ouses.'

'Gold star for you, sweetheart.'

'What 'ave they got ter do with me?'

Joey shifts closer conspiratorially. 'Oh, they have a lot to do with you, sweetheart. Who knows, one of them may be yours!'

She catches on immediately, and refuses to so much as look at the brochures during working hours, is blasé about them when he tries to go through them with her outside of work.

But when she thinks he's not listening, she picks up one and mutters that she quite likes the sound of it.

_Score Joey Boswell_.

He arranges with the estate agents for them to look round it the next day.

* * *

Joey had a dream once. A dream about a house in Gateacre, a loving wife and a happy life. The first part's come true, and the second is within his grasp.

They've signed all the papers, done all the deeds, Martina's made a few snide comments about where the money for the mortgage is coming from, and the keys have finally turned up. The place is as good as theirs, and after the wedding they're going to devote a week or two to doing it up before they move in.

Joey can't bottle up his enthusiasm, despite Martina's disapproving stares. He's overflowing with ideas- where the sofa can go, when they get one, what colour they should do the awnings, perhaps they can change the tiles in the kitchen too. He's like a man possessed, but then he's entitled to be, he thinks. It's everything he's wanted, gift-wrapped and laid before him. It is, in his mind, the first proper place of his own. He'd had a place with Roxy, true, but it had been grey and dark and full of the memories of devastating fights, and had been as far from Kelsall Street as his first wife could manage, a deliberate attempt on her part to keep him from running to his Mam every time a phone call came. This place seems more real, more like a home, more like _his_ home, not just somewhere he can stay.

Martina gives no more than the odd approving nod or non-committal noise, but it soon becomes clear enough to Joey that secretly she's thrilled. The sheer size of the place, especially in comparison to that cupboard she's got to live in, as well as the fact that it's something that belongs to her, something she never expected to have, are all adding to an excitement it takes her utmost concentration to contain.

Joey watches her go about the house, touching tap fittings and banisters, gazing out the upstairs windows at the view and the sunny estate, reaching her arms out and basking in all the light and _space_- and then hurriedly stopping whichever of these she's doing and pretending she's indifferent when she notices him observing her.

He laughs and teases her about it until she gets the hump. But she's still happy- he can see it, and he's glad.

Joey's spoiling her and he knows it- even more so than he did with Roxy, because this time around he wants everything to be perfect, and what's more, it's worth it to see that excited smile, the one she can't hide until it's already been spotted. She hasn't had much out of life so far, and Joey wants to make sure she gets her money's worth.

And at last he's getting what he always wanted, too- his idyllic little picture of a home and family. True, it's not exactly as he imagined in the beginning, and true, a part of him still sighs sadly at the fact that Oscar's not here with them, but he's more than content with what he's ended up with.

Joey had a dream once. A dream about a house in Gateacre, a loving wife and a happy life. And though only one part of it's come true to date, the second is on its way.

The wedding's in three weeks.

And he's certain that after that, the third part will follow.

* * *

Nellie Boswell, naturally, is not happy about her son's choices for this wedding.

'What d'you mean, you're not going to have a reception?' she demands, 'what d'you mean, you're not gonna have the wedding in a Catholic church? Am I doomed to sit through Proddy wedding after Proddy wedding? _Why_, Joey?'

Joey's been through this about twelve times, and he's a bit sick of the question. 'You know Father Dooley won't do it. The Catholic church doesn't believe in divorce. They wouldn't recognise our marriage.'

This immediately prompts Nellie to go into one of her usual irrational rants, beginning with _well then maybe doesn't that tell you something about what you are doing_ and then changing direction completely and going along the lines of _your first marriage wasn't recognised though, because Roxy was divorced, so technically you haven't been married, so why won't you consider it, Joey?_

'Mam, it's no sweat, it's easier if we do it this way- look, Oswald can do it, no fuss!'

Nellie nearly goes out of her mind when she hears that.

All the others drop by to offer various pieces of advice, some more helpful than others.

'Oswald thinks I look dead gorgeous when I wear me rhinestone earrings.'

'Good to know, Princess.'

'Eh, when I was married to Julie, she used to go off her rocker if I left all me sandwich ingredients all over the house.'

'Er- I'll bear that in mind, Billy. Thanks.'

'I thought I might recite a poem I'd written about you and Martina, you know, during the ceremony. I can give you a taste now, if you'd like…'

'Hey- that's great, Adrian, but, er…don't wanna spoil the surprise now, do we?' Joey's tactful way of getting out of having to hear it twice.

In the end, it's Freddie's words that stay with Joey.

'She's a good woman, son,' he says, 'pink as a rose, but she's got the thorns to match. A bit like your mother, really!' He chuckles, and Joey can only think it's a good thing Nellie's out the room. Any comment like that, innocent as it is, would be instant grounds for a shouting match.

Freddie touches his shoulder. 'Look after her.'

'Oh, I will,' Joey says. 'Don't you worry about that.'

'What are you talking about in there?' comes Nellie's voice. 'You'd better not be mentioning Lilo Lil- SHE IS A TART!'

'I'd better make me escape,' said Freddie, slapping his moth-eaten cap onto his head, 'I'll see you at the weddin'.'

* * *

It's a great distance short of fancy. The guest list is restricted to three of Martina's friends (her brother's still on the run from the law, and her parents, she informs Joey, are _not_ invited) as well as the immediate members of the Boswell clan.

Martina wears a summer dress that's part of her regular rotation, Joey turns up looking, as usual, like Mr Leather-Man, but with a bow tie that everyone says gives him the appearance of a waiter.

And, of course, the service is held in a Proddy church, and, of course, Oswald performs the ceremony, and, of course, Nellie moans before it's even begun that it's going to be the worst wedding she's ever been to.

But when Joseph Frederick Boswell takes Martina Pamela Shirley McKenna to be his lawful wedded wife, the Boswell matriarch still snuffles into her handkerchief.

* * *

They tear down all the wallpaper, just because it's their house and they can do what they like with it, and then spend at least a week arguing over what colour and pattern should replace it.

Decorating and furnishing their new abode isn't easy.

Joey wants a leather sofa. Martina refuses even to entertain the notion.

Martina opts for furniture that's understated, durable. Joey is instantly drawn to the biggest, fanciest and most pricey pieces in the shop.

Every single aspect of painting, decorating and refurbishing results in hours of bickering. But it always ends up being worth it. And the issue of the wallpaper is no exception.

'Don't stand on the ladder like that- you'll kill yerself!' Joey's balancing from the top rung, something everyone knows you're not supposed to do, but which he's done and gotten away with several times in his life before.

'Ah, don't sweat,' he calls down to Martina, 'I have no fear. I know that you will catch me in your arms if I fall.'

'Don't count on it. It'll serve you right if you break yer neck.' She frowns. 'And watch what you're doin' with that- you're not linin' it up right!'

They've finally agreed on a wallpaper they can both tolerate, if not one they both like, but despite Joey finally convincing Martina to concede and let him buy the more expensive brand, he's not enjoying doing this. The strip of paper in his hands just isn't doing what he wants it to.

'I have done decoratin' jobs before,' he reassures her, 'I know what I'm doin'.' Not in years, though, he hasn't. The last time he tried, Billy sat in the corner and watched him, then decided he could have a go on his own. They'd ended up having to pay the woman whose house it was double what Joey had intended to charge for the damages they made.

'Oh, you 'ave, 'ave you?' Martina sounds far too interested. 'Gettin' a bit o' cash in on the side, were you?'

'And who says I was getin' paid, sweetheart? It was a dear old lady, friend of the fam-il-y's, who needed a bit of assistance, and I, in my great kindness…'

'Got thirty pounds or so paid straight into yer pocket?'

'Where do you get this suspicious mind?' He smooths out the top of the strip, begins to work his way down.

'Joey.'

'I mean, just because I own a luxurious car, and we've bought a luxurious house and I happen to have a taste for leather doesn't necessarily mean I'm involved in…'

'Joey-'

'Anythin' the Social Security would say is…'

'_Joey!_'

He pauses, turns awkwardly on the ladder.

'Look what you've done.' She points, and Joey's eyes widen as he realises his mistake. This is the second strip of wallpaper he's put up, and though he's eventually managed to line it up so there are no gaps, the pattern is running the opposite way.

'Know what you're doin', eh?'

'It was a mistake anyone could have made, sweetheart,' he says, refusing to let her claim this round for herself. He takes hold of the ends of the strip and pulls it off.

It tears right down the middle.

Martina snickers. Joey just stares at it forlornly.

'I told you when we bought it that wallpaper wasn't good quality.'

'But…it should be- the amount I paid for it…'

She puts one hand on her hip. 'Joey, there's something I think it's high time you learned- outside your little Boswell bubble- in the _real_ world, 'expensive' is _not_ always synonymous with 'better.''

'But it _is_,' he insists, 'the best things in life are expensive, remember?'

'If you carry on sayin' that, I think I might 'ave ter tell the Social Security just 'ow many expensive things you've got and 'aven't declared…'

Joey's struck by an idea. 'No, you won't. You won't grass on the love of your life.'

'And what makes you think I won't?'

Joey walks across to where they've left all the various decorating implements, roots around until he finds a brush they haven't put glue on yet. He runs the bristles over his fingers, makes a note of the sensation.

When he turns back he's grinning. 'Because I just remembered somethin'.'

'Oh,' she has both hands on her hips now, 'and what might that be?'

He strides over to her, pulls the brush from behind his back and lightly brushes it over her neck. She flinches.

'You're ticklish.'

'Keep away from me,' she warns, taking two steps back. 'I mean it.'

'And what'll you do?' he sees her eyes glint in response, and then she's grabbed the brush from the pot of paste, and holds it threateningly.

'That's got glue on it, that one,' Joey points out.

'Oh, _good_,' says Martina wickedly, and she hits him with it.

Joey stands still, eyes widening comically as he takes in the glue already beginning to congeal on his clothes. He looks back up at Martina, and she's smirking.

'Of course, you know, this means war.' He dips his own brush in the paste.

They don't get much work done after that.

* * *

'Don't make a big fuss about this, sweetheart,' Joey says as they sit on the floor in front of the fireplace, watching the remains of the wallpaper burn, paste drying in their hair, 'but perhaps you may have been right on this occasion.'

Martina's face is smug.

'P'raps next time I tell you to do somethin', you'll do it.'

'Oh, I wouldn't count on _that_, Martina.' He nudges her. 'I said on _this _occasion.'

'Tsk. I knew that wouldn't last.' She sighs. 'At least tell me when we buy the new stuff you'll put the paper up so the patterns _match_.'

Entertaining as the skirmish with the paste was, Joey's not sure he wants to go through this again. 'You know, I think I'll get a man in to finish the job.'

Martina looks at him in amused disbelief. 'And what 'appened to _I've done decoratin' jobs before, I know what I'm doin'?_'

'Oh, I do, sweetheart, I do. But it would free up a lot of time for me to spend lavishin' me attention on you.' He kisses her, but only a peck- she tastes like glue.

'Gettin' a man in would cost a lot extra.'

'Well, you know the motto- the best things in life…'

She swats him before he can finish the sentence.

* * *

**Yep, they burned the wallpaper. Don't ask me why. My brain's gone a little bit berserk- it's probably the fact that uni's going back and I'm compensating by going insane. **

**And yes, I deliberately only described the wedding in minimal detail. Also, there are a few references that mightn't make sense now but will later.  
Explanation for Martina's names: Pamela from the actress who played her, Shirley because I think if I'm not mistaken she played ShirleyValentine on stage for a while. Her surname will be explored more in a later chapter.**

**Next chapter preview:** _Joey can't help it. He's a Boswell. It's in his blood. And she can never, never understand that._


	4. To gain a family, to lose another: 1992

**Chronologically, this is the earliest of the chapters in my fic. I've been putting this one off, because it involves Roxy, but I showed how Martina split with Shifty, and I have to show Joey's breakup too. I've tried to make it plausible. **

**NB: I may have fudged Roxy's son's age a little bit. I've made him born in 1985, making him two (or just under, I'm going with 18 months) when he was dumped on Joey's doorstep by her husband in series 3/4, then maybe 6 when Joey and Roxy got married, and about seven now.**

**I've also tried to include references to the organic business Joey had in the later series, but I'm making it go out of business so I can get Joey back to doing his secret job again by the time he meets up with Martina. And Aveline and Oswald's daughter is canon. I know they have another kid, but I can't remember much about it so I've not mentioned the other child specifically at this point.**

* * *

**To gain a family, to lose another**

**1992  
**_Joey can't help it. He's a Boswell. It's in his blood. And Roxy can never, never understand that._

_~x~x_

The organic business has gone bust. Well, Joey's side of it has. Surprisingly, Freddie's been the more successful one, has sold his half, (leaving Joey to struggle on opposite a complete stranger) has even gotten enough to get himself a new flat. Which means Lilo Lil's living in said flat with him. Which means Joey's getting phone calls from Nellie every half hour.

Which means Roxy is not happy.

And Roxy not being happy coupled with the fact that Joey now has very little money equals total catastrophe.

Joey's trying to juggle his finances, his family, a child who needs attention and a wife who's so displeased with him these days that he can do no right.

It's no way to live, this.

Joey thinks back to the days when it was all simple and fun, and everything he did was for a laugh. Even though 1983 should be tainted by the memory of his dad walking out in favour of Lilo Lil, it's always quite a happy time in his mind.

No Roxy, and of course he was missing her, but it was a time for clever, sneaky little night-time jobs, for coming into his own, a time of new and exciting adventures, of leather and a shiny '50s Jag to call his own.

And a time for family- Mam and Grandad, Jack and Adrian, Aveline and Billy and him. Pots and Mongy and dinnertime prayers and Edgar and sibling squabbles.

Happy days they were.

Happy, triumphant days.

And of course there was the DHSS. Joey misses the mental jousting. He misses walking in with a proud swagger, head held high, sitting opposite Martina the DHSS lady and having a good old banter. Of all the ways he used to get money, including the more fabulously, thrillingly risky of his jobs, that was by far the most fun.

He thinks about Martina often. Not for any particular reason, mind, but she was always someone he admired, who he thought deserved better than what she had. And a worthy opponent, too. She was one of the few who could match wits with him.

Sometimes he wonders if she's still there, wonders what she would do if he walked back in there one day with a cry of _'greetings!'_ He wonders if she and Shifty have made a good go of it, or if his cousin's long since run off with someone else. The family don't see Shifty, haven't made contact with him since he swindled them, so Joey can't ask. Not that he gets much chance to ask, because if he so much as visits for an hour, Roxy flies into a rage.

She's been doing that a lot, lately. Flying into a rage.

And Roxy-rages aren't the same as normal-people rages. Because, for one thing, they're not actual rages. She stews quietly, takes it out on him in sharp, quiet, nasty little ways.

She doesn't understand- she just doesn't understand. His family _needs_ him, they can't do without him. And it isn't as if he's not still there for her, still there for her son. He's always looking out for the two of them, spending time with them, chatting to her, playing with little Oscar, acting the parent when Roxy can't be bothered- which is frequently. He's been everything a husband and father should be. And yet she still goes off at him when he runs out for an hour or two to sort out one of his mother's crises. She just doesn't understand- he's a Boswell. It's in his blood. It's not just something he can walk away from without a thought. Family is everything to him- all of it, not just his wife and the child that's practically his. He still loves the others, and he can't just stop.

He doesn't know what to do about the situation, so he keeps on trying to act as if nothing's wrong. And that just makes it worse.

* * *

'Joey, oh, Joey, he hasn't been round in a week- and when I rang up I could hear a great, booming, trollopy Irish laugh in the background! _She's_ living with him! She's living in his flat again! The TART! You'd think he'd be getting too old for all that rampant misbehaving, wouldn't you? But _no_, not a bit of it…oh, Joey…'

Joey makes a sympathetic noise into the phone.

'Well, if he turns up tonight, 'just passing' or whatever excuse he chooses to use this time, I'll tell him, Joey, I'll tell him he's not to walk through my door again! Making an example of himself like that- letting me and _our children_ be privy to that sort of _sordid adultery!_'

If anything, Nellie's famous fits of fury have worsened over the years. Joey can almost envision himself reaching from his place one down from the head of the Boswell table, to touch his mother's arm, rub her shoulders, calm her down. His offering of comfort over the phone isn't the same, but it's all he can do.

It would take him a long time to drive out there, and when he got back, Roxy would be ready with her mental rolling pin, preparing to beat him down.

'Just simmer down, Mam, okay? Maybe she _is_ there,' he won't use Lilo Lil's name- he doesn't want his head bitten off, even if it is just down the line, 'but you've got to accept that Dad- is Dad. Sometimes he can't help what he does…'

'Can't help it my foot! He knows what he's doing, Joey, he's…'

And then there's an unearthly beeping sound, a dial tone- they've been cut off.

Joey taps the receiver against his hand, puts it back to his ear but no, there's nothing.

'Ahem.'

Joey turns and there stands Roxy, finger on the disconnect button.

He opens his mouth to say something.

'Not your Mam _again_, Joey,' she says. 'I can't _stand_ it. Every day, Mam this, Mam that, phone up Mam or the whole world'll collapse.'

'She needed me,' Joey protests, 'she was upset!'

'She _always_ needs you. What about what _I _need? D'you think it's easy bein' married to Oedipus in a leather jacket?'

Suddenly Joey feels tired and heavy, and very, _very_ fed up with all of this.

'Don't start, Roxy, just _don't_. You know my family-'

'_I'm_ your family, Joey. Me and Oscar.'

'I know that, Roxy, I know that. But…'

'But nothin', Joey. At some point you have to start puttin' me first.'

She marches off towards the door, flinging it open.

'And when have you ever put _me_ first?' Joey says.

Roxy hesitates in the doorway, her back to him.

'The only time I ever see you these days is when you're tellin' me not to talk to me family. Fair do, Roxy, practise what you preach!'

A little harsh, perhaps, but it's true. Every word.

She turns her head slowly. 'Don't be so passive-aggressive, Joey.' Her eyes lock with his for a moment and then she disappears round the corner.

_Me being passive-aggressive?_ Joey wants to shout. _Me? Me?!_ Passive-aggressive seems to be the only language Roxy communicates in. He laughs bitterly.

'Joey?'

He looks down, and Oscar's peering round the door, eyes wide.

'What's the matter, son?'

'Are you and Mammy having another fight?'

Joey sighs, reaches out to him. 'It's okay, son. It'll all be okay. We just have a couple of issues, that's all. Why don't you go on back to bed, okay?'

Oscar's only seven, but he can tell something's not right between them anymore. It hasn't been for a while now. Joey's going bankrupt has put enough of a strain on their marriage, without Roxy taking irrational offense at the amount of time he spends talking to his mother. They're heading for a catastrophe as it is.

And then, just to throw another spanner in the works, there's the other thing.

There's the fact that Roxy's seeing someone else.

* * *

Joey can't remember when it started, and he can't remember when he started noticing. But it's happening right under his very nose.

It begins with the odd unexplained bunch of flowers, the odd little gift. He gets into bed one night and she's eating chocolates out of a box. And she seems totally unashamed, seems to _want_ him to wonder what's going on.

He tries to ignore the signs for as long as he can- but it gets to the point, after she comes home wearing a man's jacket, where he just can't deny it anymore.

Roxy's got another man.

Whether she actually loves him or whether it's just to get back at him he isn't sure, but either way is bad enough.

'Who is he?' he asks one evening, out of the blue. They're watching television, Oscar's been put to bed, and Joey just can't take the not knowing for certain anymore.

'His name's Alberto.' She doesn't even try to deny it. She just keeps watching the telly as if this is the most ordinary of casual conversations to be having. 'He's an accountant up in London- he's down here on business.'

'Oh,' says Joey. He doesn't know what else to say. It hasn't sunk in yet. He seems to be floating between feeling and nothingness.

'How long?' his voice is flat, hollow.

'About four months now.'

Joey swallows. Longer than he thought, then. And then, like the delayed reaction it is, the anger and fear and shock and hurt catch up with him, knock the wind out of him. Of course, he knew it was happening all along- but to have it confirmed, well, that's something else. It's like the comfy blanket of denial he's been hiding under has been pulled off him.

He turns to her, feeling himself fall to pieces, and she looks back, totally unmoved, uncaring, even. It doesn't even seem to _bother_ her that she's crushing him.

'Why?!' he bursts out.

'Because I was _hurt_, Joey, that's why! All the time, day in, day out, you're fretting and worrying and obsessin' over your Mam, and what about me? I was _hurt, _Joey, and the only way to make you see that was to hurt you!'

Joey grits his teeth. 'I can't believe you would do this- I responded to a _cry for help_ from my family and you thought you could just... they _needed_ me, Roxy. I may be married to you, I may love you- but I _still love them_, and nothin's gonna change that. For you to do this just to get back at me…it's disgustin'. It's deliberately cruel.'

'Don't _I_ need you, Joey?' There's something horrible, something mocking in the way she says this. She's not saying _I need you_, such is obvious from the purposeful order of her words, she's questioning his loyalty to all the people in his life, testing which one he loves most. And that's not fair.

'Well, apparently not,' he snaps. 'You've got your fancy man.'

Roxy looks for a moment like she might strike him- but she won't, and she doesn't. It's not her style. She likes to wound emotionally, does Roxy.

'Well, if that's the way you're gonna behave about this, maybe you should leave.'

Joey's mouth drops open.

'Go on,' Roxy says, gesturing to the door. 'Get out.'

Joey can't believe this. He just can't believe it. She's the one who's been unfaithful to him, and yet it's _him_ who's been reproved for his 'behaviour', _him_ who's being thrown out.

He begins to protest this. 'Roxy…'

'Go on. I don't wanna see you tonight.'

'Roxy, don't…' a sudden twang of remorse shakes him. Perhaps this _is_ his fault, maybe she's right, he's neglected her, _driven_ her to having this affair.

'It's no use sayin' you're sorry _now_, Joey. It's too late. The damage is done. Go.'

So Joey goes, teeth chattering from stress and confusion and anger and pain, and several other emotions he's yet to put his finger on.

It's all his fault, one side of his brain laments over and over. It's all, all his fault. The other half cackles harshly at the irony. Joey's been trying to be a good son, a good brother, be there for the people who have always been there for him all his life- perfectly understandable to any normal wife. Roxy's the one who's been tarting around behind his back. And yet he's the one who feels guilty about all this.

He steps outside. It's pouring, and his hair immediately gets drenched. The water cascades over the leather he's wearing in rivets, every part of his shirt that's showing gets soaked in a matter of seconds. He's got no change of clothes with him, no plan of where to go. The family he was raised with are miles away, the one he's chosen is barred to him, Roxy and Oscar locked inside the house, Joey locked out.

He begins to laugh bitterly, a hysterical choking sort of sound that gets louder and louder as hysterics grab him, and he bends over the bonnet of his Jag, howling with them like a madman. Slowly the laughs make way for tears and gulps, and then he's sobbing, sobbing unashamedly like a child, like a girl, like Nellie after one of her fits.

The rain continues to assault him and Joey just laughs and cries and laughs, not caring who sees him, because at some point, his life's taken an unwanted turn and now it's all falling apart.

* * *

He does eventually calm down, does get his senses together enough to think of driving to a hotel for the night, but by the time he's parked outside the front, he's realised there's no point- there's no way he's going to get any sleep tonight.

He stays in his Jag instead, lying across the backseat and counting all the rain drops on the car window, waiting until it's light enough to drive and then switching the engine back on. He won't go home, not yet- he wants to see someone, _anyone_, talk this over.

He doesn't know where he's driving, but somehow the Jag does, or perhaps he's being guided, and he ends up parking outside the block of flats that now houses Freddie Boswell.

Of all the people to go to, he doesn't know why it'd be his Dad. You can't ask for advice about your cheating spouse from another cheating spouse, can you? That's just ridiculous.

Still he goes, though. Maybe it's the fact that Roxy had an affair because he was always going to his Mam, so deep down he doesn't want to give her more provocation. Maybe it's just that Freddie was closer.

He walks up the stairs to the fourth floor, rings the doorbell and waits patiently for someone to attend to him.

There's a clacking sound from within, as if someone's galumphing toward the door, putting heavy weight on a tiny pair of shoes, and then Lilo Lil appears in the doorway.

Well, that's just perfect, isn't it?

'Er, is me Dad home?'

'There's one o' yawr lads 'ere to see ye, Freddie Boswell!' She shouts, her voice rough and scratchy and coarse, and then she galumphs off back to whence she came, and Freddie's there, hair sticking up all over the place as usual, corners of his moustache turned down as he frowns.

'None of you ever come and see me unless something's wrong.'

'Roxy's havin' an affair,' Joey blurts out.

Freddie hums, nods. 'I've got a drop o' whiskey in the kitchen,' he says eventually. 'You'd better come in.'

* * *

'What d'you think I should do?' Joey's relayed the story with no small amount of misery, and his belly burns from the Scotch Freddie's poured out for him and insisted he consume.

He isn't expecting the response he gets.

'I'd get a divorce if I were you.'

He's glad he doesn't have drink in his mouth now, or he'd have surely spat it out. '_What?!'_

That's the last thing he thinks Freddie would say. He's been expecting all sorts of things- excuses on Roxy's part, that sometimes people can't help it, need their freedom, et cetera et cetera. But not that- not from _him_, of all people!

'You can scarcely talk, can you!' he stutters, 'I mean, Mam 'asn't divorced you, 'as she?'

'Look,' Freddie says, pronouncing the 'oo' sound like 'moon', 'this isn't about me and your mother. Every case is different. This is about you.'

Joey still doesn't follow. 'But why would you…'

'Look,' says Freddie again, lowering his voice, 'I admit I might've done wrong, walkin' out with Lilo Lil. Sometimes I miss bein' at home, with a warm plate o' scouse in front o' me and Nellie Boswell shouting about me little carts. But I love your mother, and she knows that- well, I think she knows that. That's why she hasn't divorced me. But then Lil, she's…a sort of temptation. I can't stay away from her, know what I mean?'

Joey just stares, taking it all in.

'I think you do know what I mean,' Freddie continues, lowering his voice even more, obviously a precaution so Lilo Lil can't hear. 'It's the same for you with Roxy. Even when she'd left yer, when she was married to someone else, you couldn't help it. You kept goin' back to her. Roxy is to you what Lil is to me.'

Joey can't answer, because that's just…so…_profound_, and also totally unexpected. But true, in a sense, he supposes.

'And that sort o' relationship isn't good for you, son. I can handle it, because dear little Thunderknickers is good to me. She's warm and friendly, and good for when I need a break from your mother. Roxy isn't good to you- she never was. She keeps hurtin' you. And if you keep goin' back, she's gonna keep on hurtin' you, keep on havin' affairs. For the rest of your life.'

These last words are said with emphasis, and Joey mulls them over.

'Is that really what you want?'

He ponders it. He ponders everything that's happened over the last year or so, from the beginning of their tempestuous marriage up til now. It had seemed so perfect, so sweet, so blissful at the beginning, and he'd thought it was going to be a dream come true. Yes, Joey had had a dream about a quiet family life with Roxy, and it seemed he was going to have it.

But he'd never imagined his other family, his brothers and sister and Mam and Dad and Grandad, would be so cruelly cut out of it by his wife. And she'd been trying to do that from the moment they went house-hunting, picking a place so far on the outskirts of town it was practically into the next one, far away from the crises of the others. That isn't a dream- it's a _nightmare_. Joey wants a life of his own, yes, but he still wants his family to be _in_ it without having to feel he's doing the wrong thing.

Maybe his Dad's right. Maybe it _would_ be better to cut his losses, write off his marriage to Roxy as a hopeless case and start afresh. He could go home. He could help his family. Things could go back to the way they were.

But he still loves her- there's never been anyone else, and he's so used to the idea of loving her, of wanting her, that the idea of throwing her away with both hands frightens him. As does the idea of losing Oscar.

He knows Oscar isn't his, that he was the product, most likely, of an affair Roxy had while claiming to be with him, but during the time his relationship with Roxy has blossomed he's grown to love the rugrat. Joey supposes you can't watch someone you know grow from a quiet toddler to a mischievous and lovable seven-year-old without beginning to feel _something_- especially as during this year, this year they've been married, he's been the one around for most of Oscar's dramas and joys. The boy really has become his son, and he his father. Joey has, in a very real way, gotten a family of his own with the two of them. And to lose that would be just terrible.

But then again, he knows for a fact that staying together for the sake of the children is something you're most definitely not supposed to do. That's what everyone says, and if he needs proof, all he has to do is look at Billy and Julie. It took them two years to get their divorce, perhaps more, he can't remember, and all because Billy wanted to keep Francesca close. Well, partly because of that, anyway. Another part had to do with the fact that the idiots couldn't stay away from each other,_ lusted_ after one another something awful, even while hating each other's guts.

And when it comes to the affair, his Dad is spot on, Joey realises with a sickening lurch. Roxy is never going to change. She's been like this for years- running off, getting married behind his back, then carrying on with him while she knows he has a husband, getting herself pregnant by someone she doesn't even _remember_ now, and now this Alberto, this bastard (for although Joey's never met him, nay, doesn't even know what he looks like or who he is, he's certain he _is_ a bastard) is just part of a continuing, consistent pattern. Roxy is a cheater. Always has been, always will be. And if he stays, he'll have to accept that it's for life.

And Joey, as hopelessly in love with his wife as he is, just can't do that.

'I'll think about it,' he says finally. Indecisive, but he can't come right out and say he'll do it- not yet. He doesn't know if he'll have the strength of mind to actually go through with it- not when Roxy holds his heart and his mind, one in each hand, and the rest of him on a leash between her teeth. But he _will_ think about it.

* * *

The house seems familiar to him the way it should, and he feels as if he's coming home like always. And at the same time, it doesn't. At the same time, it feels like an alien place, a place he's no longer welcome to come to and go from as he pleases. The front door- this same front door he's been opening and entering through for the best part of a year- seems forbidding, a warning barrier between him and whatever awaits him on the other side.

_Come on, son_, he tells himself. _Nothin' to be afraid of._

But he's shaking like a leaf. Deep down inside himself he's hoping he'll get in there and all won't be lost after all. Roxy'll be waiting with an apology and a promise never to do that to him again, and he'll kiss her and hug Oscar and things will go back to the way they should have been.

Even deeper down, though, he knows this isn't going to happen. It's beyond repair this time.

He pushes the door open.

'Joey!' Oscar's flung himself at Joey the instant he's put one foot in the vestibule, and Joey falters as he returns the cuddle. He loves this lad, loves him so much. A divorce would break his little heart. Oscar's been messed around his whole life, been the casualty of Roxy's disastrous marriage to Stan, then Roxy's disastrous life alone, then Roxy's disastrous marriage to Joey, always looking on, ignored while his mother made mess after mess. And Joey's tried to fix that, be the father Oscar never had.

_You can still be Oscar's Dad_, Joey thinks. _You can still have a role in his growing up. It's just not gonna be in the same house, that's all._

'Where's your mother?' he asks.

'She went over to Alberto's hotel,' Oscar tells him. All thoughts of changing his mind, of staying, vanish from Joey's head like a puff of smoke. She's not going to apologise. She's _still_ seeing him. Freddie was one hundred per cent right.

'Oscar, listen, son,' he sits down on the sofa, gestures for the boy to join him. 'I need to talk to you about somethin'.'

'Are you and Mammy gonna break up?' He's perceptive for his years. Joey nods, and the look on the child's face breaks his heart.

'I knew that,' says Oscar. 'That always happens when Mam gets a new boyfriend.' He's not crying- he's a brave little lad, but Joey knows he's upset. He puts his arms around him.

'Oscar, I'm not gonna lie to you. I think that'd be an insult- you're too old for all that. You're right, I can't… I can't stay with your mother anymore. A lot of things have 'appened- but listen, son,' he looks Oscar straight in the eyes, 'that doesn't mean I'll love you any less. You're still my son, and I'll still love you. Always. And even if I don't live with you anymore, well, it doesn't mean we won't see each other, does it? I'll come and visit you as much as I can, and you can come down to me- maybe stay some weekends, yeah?'

Oscar listens and nods. He's taking it well, but then it probably hasn't hit him yet. Not properly.

'You promise? You really, really promise?'

'Of course I do.' He draws an 'x' on his chest. 'Cross me heart. I'm a man o' me word.'

Oscar says nothing, and then abruptly grabs Joey in another hug.

They don't move until Joey hears the front door slam.

Roxy appears, lipstick smudged, clothes ruffled and a thunderous face on her when she sees the two of them there. Joey sets Oscar down with a few soft words about running along, and the kid doesn't need to be told twice. He knows exactly what's going to happen.

'What do you think you're doing, Joey?'

He doesn't look at her face. He knows if he does, he'll remember all the happy times they shared, and she'll have got him on a hook again. It's not hard for that to happen.

It's hard enough breaking it to Oscar, having to hurt him like this, without being lured back in by Roxy.

Joey has to go. And he can't let her stop him.

'I just came to fetch me belongings,' he informs her. 'Then I'm gonna go back to me Mam's-'

'Oh, your _Mam's_, I should've known…'

'And then I'm gonna file for divorce.'

Well, that shuts her up.

'Div-divorce?'

He doesn't want to discuss this with her. Not just now.

'You brought it on yourself, Roxy.' He gets up, heads for the staircase without another word, without so much as a glance in her direction.

'Oh, play the victim, as always, Joey. Doesn't occur to you, does it, that this might've been _your_ fault- always putting your Mam first- if you'd just…'

He blocks her words out, doesn't falter in his stride. He keeps going.

'You're just doing this for attention, Joey!' he hears her call up the stairs after him. He ignores her. He packs. He catches Oscar on his way down and gives him a hug goodbye, promising he'll phone up as soon as he can. He takes his cases to the car. And he doesn't look back at Roxy as he gets into his Jag and drives off.

But he remembers how Oscar had looked at him as he'd been preparing to go, and his heart breaks into a thousand pieces.

* * *

Aveline and Oswald generously offer to let him stay for a few days, and Joey accepts reluctantly. Aveline's too gushy about the whole thing, and Oswald too perceptive, and Joey makes excuses about not wanting to trespass on their hospitality for long. Even so, he's very grateful, he says, if they'd put him up for one night, maybe two. He can't face going back to Kelsall Street, not yet, not straight away. He doesn't want to hear Mam saying she told him so, as she inevitably will.

But the first thing little Tracey Ursula says when she toddles into the room is 'where's Oscar? I want to play with him,' and Joey feels a surge of tears coming up, has to hastily invent a reason for the girl to leave him alone. Five minutes later Oswald's inquiring if he wants to talk, and Aveline's brought up a plate of slightly past their prime jammy dodgers, as if for some reason something edible will help him at a time like this and Joey decides he's leaving the instant dawn breaks tomorrow. At least in Kelsall Street there aren't any children to demand where Oscar is. There's Billy, and that's almost the same thing, but not quite.

What's going to happen about Oscar now? Joey can't bear the thought of being away from him, can't bear the thought of not seeing that adorable grin every morning as Oscar comes into the kitchen, miniature dressing-gown and hair tousled, jokingly begging Joey to give him a sip of his coffee and then proclaiming how disgusting he thinks it is when Joey finally relents. He'll still see him, of course. There's no way Roxy won't let him. Even _she's_ not that cruel.

* * *

'I told you so, Joey. Didn't I tell you so?'

These are the first words that escape Nellie's mouth when Joey turns up on her doorstep with his bags.

'That Roxy was never any good for you…I always knew it wouldn't last…I never liked her, _and_ she's a Proddy, Joey, it's no less than you can expect from someone like that…'

Her comments are like knives, but Joey endures them, because more than ever, at this moment, he feels lost and helpless and alone. He's got no money, he's just destroyed the life he built for himself, he's a lost child and he wants his mummy. In the midst of all Nellie's rambling, he throws his arms around her and holds on for all he's worth.

His Mam stops speaking and holds him, comforts him, and even though Joey's a grown man, has always been the tough one seeing everyone else through, and even though Billy's standing in the middle of the parlour, mouth hanging open as he watches the spectacle, Joey cries openly, lets himself be cradled, clutches Nellie with all the strength in his body.

Things revert almost instantly to some degree of normality. Joey's granted the use of Aveline's old room (now Billy's the only Boswell child still on the scene, he's become used to having a room all to himself, and refuses to share), he gets his old seat back at the table during meals, takes turns with Billy doing various chores and taking Grandad's tray.

Being at home helps dull the pain somewhat. Despite the fact he's sure they're what broke up his marriage, having his family around is like having a drop of prozac on his tongue- just a drop, mind. Not enough to take away the worried thoughts of what's going to happen to him, but enough to let him forget for a few minutes at a time.

He volunteers for extra household work, does a few on-the-side jobs, helps Billy make his sandwiches in the mornings, immersing himself in as much busywork as possible.

It's almost as if he never left home.

Or rather it would be, if he didn't have the memories of that other life-the one he's now lost.

* * *

'So. You're back then.'

Joey passes Grandad his tray. 'Yeah. I'm back.'

'Your wife's been hanky-pankying, that's what Billy said.'

'I'd rather not dwell on that at the moment, if that's all the same, Grandad.'

'You might as well. Everything's 'anky panky these days. Might as well get used to it.' He peers down at his dinner. 'And chicken. 'Anky panky and bloody chicken. That's all the world's made up of anymore. I can't remember the last time I 'ad a pork chop.'

Joey doubts Grandad's ability to eat a pork chop, given that he's going to be eighty soon and his teeth aren't what they were. But he doesn't comment on this. Grandad's stomach has saved him a painful conversation.

'I'll put in a good word with Mam about the pork, sunshine,' he smiles, and retreats back into Number Thirty, leaving the old man to complain to the empty street about his meal.

* * *

Nellie opens up the pot. Billy grumbles and groans and wheezes as always, but drops a pound coin into it. Joey has automatically reached for his wallet, his fingers relying on their muscle memory and working towards the notes section, looking for a tenner or maybe even a twenty to contribute.

But he hasn't got anything.

'I'll pay tomorrow.'

Billy, who's been sneaking mouthfuls of goulash, drops his spoon to his bowl with a loud clattering noise. Nellie's agog.

Joey has never, ever- _never_ in all his years- not contributed anything at all.

Never.

He's been hit hard by all this.

The other two are silent, just staring at the near empty pot. Joey sweats. His shirt melts into his chest. Beads of it collect on his forehead. And then, just as he thinks things can't possibly get any more awful, Nellie replaces the lid, folds her hands together.

'Prayers,' she says, and Joey sinks into the little safe pocket of relief, shutting his eyes.

'We thank Thee, O, God for the food on the table, the money in our pockets and the strong, loving family we have. And we ask Thee, Dear Father, to watch over Joey, and protect him through this time of trouble and grief. May he get through this painful divorce, and may his financial crisis come to an end, and most of all, may he find strength and solace in us. The family. Amen.'

'Amen,' says Billy and begins to wolf down his meal.

'Amen,' says Joey, and starts to cry.

* * *

He tries to play nice about the whole thing. If they can come to an agreement, settle things out of court, make a nice little arrangement between themselves, then the actual legal procedure can be a cut and dry case of signing paperwork, and everyone's fine. Well, as fine as they can be, given the circumstances.

'I just want this divorce over with, and quickly,' he tells Roxy amiably, 'without any fuss or fightin' about property and the suchlike. You can keep the house, I'll pay you this much a week- that includes child support for Oscar…' he writes a figure down on a piece of paper, shows her. It's decent, more than most people would pay, and she should be happy with it, he reasons. After all, she's already getting payments from Stan, her first husband, and her new Latin lover's quite well-off- she'll be absolutely raking it in. But if giving in like this means the least arguments, means the smoothest path to a clean break and a sensible relationship for Oscar's sake, he'll gladly pay a lot, even if it might be a bit of a struggle at first. His job is a dead loss, but maybe if he sells off the last of the organic produce that'll tide him over 'til something else comes along.

'And if you don't want me in the house when I visit with Oscar, I can easily take him to the park or my place or somethin' for a few hours a week, stay out of your hair.' He smiles. These are reasonable terms, and all one she should agree to with no fuss. It should be easy. A nice truce.

But one look from Roxy immediately tells him it's not going to be so.

'What d'you mean, visit with Oscar? He's my son, not yours.'

Joey's heart stops. 'Well I just assumed…'

'Why did you assume anythin', Joey? He's my kid, I'm his parent. You're not. You divorce me, you divorce me kid, Joey.'

Joey feels like he's turned to stone, and a ginormous building is crumbling and collapsing around him.

'But I…' What can Joey say to her? 'You know I think o' Oscar as my own! You can't do that!'

'You can't have it both ways, Joey. He's not your kid, you've got no legal right to see him.'

He can't believe she's doing this. Roxy's got a spiteful streak something awful, but _this_, this is just inhuman. For the first time in his entire life, he feels a shudder of deep disdain for her. His face hardens, his jaw sets. He takes back the paper with the figures on it, tears it in half.

'If that's the way you wanna play it, Roxy, then fine. If you don't wanna play fair, then neither will I. I'm gonna fight to see that boy, because he's my son no matter what you say, and I'm gonna make sure I can hang onto everything else I'm entitled to as well.'

He's not playing nice anymore. Not if she's not going to. He's going to hire a good solicitor first thing, make statements. The bond between him and Oscar is undeniable- there's not a jury in the world who wouldn't grant him at least some visitation, and he's going to push for it with all he's got. And if she's going to be the way she is, he's not going to give her all that money after all, he's going to find out, given that Stan's still supporting her, just how little he can get away with.

Roxy's been unreasonable before, but this time she's gone too far. And he's not going to stand for it.

* * *

The problem with hiring a solicitor is that solicitors are expensive, and Joey's still recovering from the collapse of the organic business. He's not making nearly enough to pay the enormous fees he's being given. In desperation, he sells his half- not for nearly enough as Freddie got for his, but a sizeable sum, once he's haggled with the idiot who takes it, and enough to get him a few more sessions, enough chances to talk over his options, work out his plan of defense. He'll take up with his old sort of work, after all this is over, maybe go back on Social Security as well. But he can't devote time to that just yet, not until all this nasty divorce business is settled.

The solicitor remembers Billy from a few years back, is uncooperative when he first hears the name 'Boswell'. He ups his fee.

Joey turns to the family for help, and each of his parents (and Grandad, who's got a little tucked away for goodness knows what) opens their heart and their wallet, donates what they can spare to the cause.

Roxy refuses to negotiate, refuses even to discuss any sort of visitation at all. The visits to the solicitors continue, and the fees keep on coming.

Joey pawns his gold chains, his Cartier watch, even his wedding ring. His neck and wrist feel strangely light, and he still instinctively reaches up to fiddle with the accessories once in a while, blinking when he realises they're not there anymore. But losing them is worth it if he can get in one or two more sessions before the looming court case. If it comes down to it, he's prepared to sell his _Jag_, if that's what it takes for him to be able to see Oscar.

* * *

Two weeks 'til the case, and the money's running out. He's tried everything but he wants just one last session, wants to make sure this is in the bag. And he's out of options. He clutches his keys as he writes out an ad to put in the paper, running his thumb over the Jaguar logo. He gently, lovingly caresses the car as he washes it, getting it all spick-and-span for test drives.

He tries not to think about someone else owning it, taking it places, as he sits there on the phone, listening to various offers. He's had a few good ones, a few he wouldn't even consider, and he'll wait 'til he hears everyone's bid to decide.

'Yeah, well, let me think about it,' he says, trying to play the smooth trader, a role he hasn't properly embraced in a few years, 'I've got someone on the other line who's madly interested in the car, you see. Yeah, yeah, I'll call you back. Okay, thanks, sunshine. Ciao.'

Joey makes a note of this latest offer on a pad of paper and shakes his head. It's not nearly enough- if he's going to part with his beloved car, it's got to be for a bit more than that. It's got to be enough to get the best defence set up this city's ever seen, to make sure he'll definitely win the case, before the loss of his wheels is worth it.

'Joey?'

Joey looks up to see Billy standing in the doorway, custard from a profiterole all round his mouth and chocolate on his fingers. Not letting the remains of the cakes from yesterday's tea go to waste, obviously.

'I'm a bit busy at the moment, son. What is it?'

'Can you come into the kitchen for a minute?' There's something a little strange about his younger brother's voice, like he's trying too hard to sound casual. Joey looks from the phone to Billy and back again.

'Okay, but make it quick. I'm expectin' another call about me Jag any minute.'

He gets up and follows Billy into the other room.

He isn't prepared for what he sees.

He's been transported back into the past. Somehow, when he's been wrapped up in his bargaining they've arrived here, crept into the house, and now they're all there, sitting round the table like in the olden days, Jack and Adrian, Aveline with four-inch stick-on nails and five plastic necklaces, Billy. No sign of Freddie, or Nellie, just the other members of his generation, although the pot sits in the centre of the table as if it was a mealtime, the beady little eyes of the porcelain chicken peeping out over its painted beak.

'What's all this?'

'Sit down,' Adrian gestures, and he does, clouded with confusion.

'We know you've been going through…well, what Dad would call a black period,' Adrian goes on, 'you know, all the colour drained away, left with just darkness surrounding you…'

'Yeah, he'd get the point without the poetic metaphors,' Jack butts in. 'Thing is, we all know what it's like to have kids, and we all know how much it'd hurt to never be able to see 'em…'

'Julie doesn't let me see Francesca much,' Billy interrupts, and is glared at.

'We're talkin' about Joey, not about you,' Jack snaps.

'And we all think Roxy's bein' a _cow_, not lettin' you see little Oscar,' Aveline contributes, practically in tears herself at the thought.

Adrian nods at her, and she lifts the pot, being very careful not to chip her nails against it, and deposits it in front of Joey.

'So we've all chipped in to get you this,' Adrian says. 'Only, er, don't tell Mam about this.'

Joey stares at it, frozen for a moment.

'Well go on,' Jack says. 'Open it.'

He lifts the lid, places it to one side. And Joey is immediately moved to tears by what's inside.

'There's got to be over two thousand pounds in here,' he says softly, skimming through the thick wad of banknotes.

'Yeah. Sold me van,' Jack says.

'And mine,' Billy pipes up.

'I've put in the proceeds from my last poetry anthology,' says Adrian.

'And I got Oswald to have a whip-round down the church,' Aveline smiles.

Joey looks from one to another, astounded and saturated in gratitude. 'You shouldn't have…you can't sell…I can't take this. Honestly, I can't. You can't go makin' sacrifices like that for me…'

Adrian closes Joey's hand around the money. 'We can. And we have.'

'You've lost your job, lost your wife, lost your home, and all your flash gear,' Jack says. 'You deserve to be able to keep one thing. Don't sell your Jag.'

'And anyway,' Billy puts in, 'if you get rid of it, we won't be able to borrow it and feel all sophisticated when we drive around!'

Billy's _actually_ managed to make a joke that works in the current situation without offending. It gets a laugh out of Joey, but still it's too much, it's all too much…

'I might lose the court case. I might never be able to pay you all back…'

'We know that, Joey,' Adrian says, clasping his hand in a manly handshake. 'We know that.'

'But you always helped us out, ever since we were kids,' Jack says, 'and now we're gonna help you out. We're all in this together, you know.'

'We're a family,' says Billy.

'And we love you,' says Aveline.

Joey's choked up, the lump in his throat so big he barely has space for air to go in and out. He's going to cry.

'You're the best brothers and sister,' he manages to splutter, 'anyone could ever wish for.' And then he does.

Aveline gets up, totters around and hugs him from behind. Jack puts one hand on his shoulder, Adrian clasps both his hands. Billy just smiles in a way that appears creepy, but is meant to be caring, and is therefore endearing.

And Joey just loves them all so much.

This is what Roxy doesn't understand. This is what she's never understood, never will. You can't escape a bond like this. Joey will always be a part of them, and they of him. He can't help it. He's a _Boswell_. Theirs is a bond stronger than any ordinary family. It's a _Boswell_ bond. If blood is thicker than water, then _Boswell_ blood is thicker than the most viscous substance around. They'll always be around to look out for one another. _Us and ours_, just like their family motto says.

He will never feel guilty about standing by them again. He shouldn't have in the first place.

* * *

The horrible thing about having a wife with expensive tastes is that naturally, she's run off with an expensive lover. Alberto, bloody buggery Alberto who he hates so bloody much, is bloody rich. Very, very rich. He's a very successful accountant, apparently, or whatever he does – Joey wasn't listening that closely- and has so much stashed away that he's shelled out a grand old sum on a London lawyer for Roxy. A top-of-his-trade, expensive, sought-after London lawyer. Joey's never sworn so much, either in his head or out loud, as when he finds out this news. He'll never have a chance of winning now- the solicitor he has is good as far as he goes, but Roxy's has walls and walls of qualifications and has only ever lost three cases in his twenty-four year career.

The court case is a disaster- everything Joey's solicitor comes up with, Roxy's seems to have been prepared for well in advance, and he dishes out all sorts of legal maxims and big words the likes of which Joey's sure his lawyer's never even considered. Still, he puts up a good fight, so at least the money is justified, and he does manage to win Joey a few things. Not the one he wanted, though.

He comes out with an order to pay significantly less alimony than he'd planned for, but it's a small blessing when weighed against the judge's other decision. Any visits between Joey and Oscar are a matter for Roxy to decide, her being his biological and legal mother, and Joey being nothing a court will recognise to the boy. Surrogacy is not a sufficient enough case to push for visitation rights, especially as Joey never signed any official papers saying he'd adopted him. He's a stepfather only, and has no claim to Oscar that can be enforced.

The whole family have come along to provide moral support and be there for Joey when he comes out, no matter what the verdict, but he doesn't want to see any of them right now, doesn't want to hear all their _I'm sorry Joey_-s. It's not that he's not grateful for them for everything they've done, for being there, but no amount of pity in the world will help him.

Plus, he's pretty sure it didn't help matters when Nellie jumped to her feet from the audience and shouted _TART!_ every time Roxy got up to speak.

'I'm never sellin' sandwiches to anyone in that court 'ouse again,' Billy says loudly as they all go down the steps, the rest of the Boswell clan forming a protective cluster around Joey.

Despite the fact that his world has just totally and utterly been blown apart, and he wants to just crawl into a hole and never come out, Joey laughs a little at this. Because the comment is just so utterly _Billy_.

'Thanks, son,' he says, clapping Billy on the back. 'You show 'em.'

* * *

It's hell.

Utter hell.

Not a word from Oscar, and when he tries to go round to his old house, it's as if Roxy's been alerted in advance. They're never in.

Nearly two months, and he hasn't seen hide nor hair of Oscar.

He hates Roxy now.

Absolutely _detests_ her, all his fond memories of them playing in the fields and kissing under trees tainted by this new, complete and utter loathing. He's always told Aveline off for calling Roxy a cow, but the word comes naturally to him now, and he spews it out when he's alone, shouting at the photograph of her he used to keep in his wallet. He wants his lad. And she's keeping him from him, out of pure, unalloyed _spite_.

Joey's tried everything to get one last look at the lad- come to see him during open days at school, only to be turned away, told by the teachers that if he comes back they'll alert the police, because his mother did _not_ give permission for anyone other than herself to collect him. He daren't phone, because he thinks if he hears Roxy's voice he'll do something he regrets.

And so it's come to this. He's desperate. He knows Oscar sometimes walks home this way, he has a small, feeble flicker of a hope he can see him, even just catch a _glimpse_ of him at the very least. He feels in some ways like a stalker, but no, he tells himself, he's not. He just wants to say goodbye. Roxy's robbed him even of that.

He leans against his car, watching, waiting.

And then there he is, messy hair crammed under a cloth cap, surrounded by a group of other boys his age, all sporting matching grey shorts, matching scraped knees. They're laughing and bouncing, miniature shoes clattering on the pavement, making the sort of happy noise only young children can.

Joey's heart twists and knots. A tear pricks and then immediately escapes, and he wipes it away.

He takes a breath and calls.

'Oscar!'

Oscar's lagging behind the rest of the group, pauses, turns. His eyes alight on Joey, and he hesitates, wringing his little hands, conflicting emotions scrolling across his face for a while, before his exuberance wins out and an enormous smile appears. He waves enthusiastically.

Joey feels giddy. His head's spinning so drastically he steadies himself against the side of his Jag as Oscar takes two steps in his direction.

'Eh! Oscar!' one of the other lads calls. 'Don't go down there! Me Mam says you should never talk to strangers!'

'Aw, it's not a stranger!' Oscar calls back, and oh, how Joey's missed that voice, missed that lisp. 'It's my…he used to be my…it's Joey!'

And then he's flown down the path, right into Joey's open arms, and Joey's missed this, has missed him so much that for a moment he can't speak. His throat's gummed up; all he can rasp out is Oscar's name, over and over.

'Joey,' Oscar says in response, small hands clutching at the leather of Joey's jacket.

'Eh! Osc! We're goin' on ahead- we'll meet you up there!' His friends are getting impatient, anxious to move on, to get on with whatever adventure they had in mind.

'Okay!' Oscar calls without looking. His eyes are firmly fixed on Joey, and as Joey bobs down on one knee to be at eye-level with him, he reaches out, puts a hand on his chest.

'Why didn't you come and visit me?' His voice is filled with hurt and want, and it's like an arrow right through Joey's heart.

'I wanted to, son, really I did, but…' he begins, and wonders how he should end the sentence. _Your Mam wouldn't let me_ wouldn't be appropriate- true as it is, he can't indoctrinate him against his mother. That would be cruel, it would be low- right down on Roxy's level.

'I couldn't.'

'Why didn't you phone me up- or write me a letter? I can read good now. _You_ know that.'

'Well, son,' Joey corrects gently. It's a natural move after four years of keeping tabs on him, if not parenting. 'You can read _well_ now.'

'Yeah,' says Oscar. He's looking at his feet now, scuffing the side of his shoe against the pavement. Joey smiles.

'Don't do that, son.'

Oscar meets his eye, and then screws his face up. He's struggling to get something out, and, as Joey watches, his lip trembles before he bursts out with 'why can't you just come back _home_?'

_Oh, don't son. I would if I could- I would've stayed just for your sake._

'You know about me and your Mam, don't you?'

'You got divorced. Yeah, I know about that.' Oscar's gone back to scuffing his shoe. Joey doesn't chide him for it this time.

'But why can't you just get back together? It was good then! I miss you!'

'I miss you too,' Joey whispers, 'so much. But I can't…'

'And I don't like Alberto. He comes around all the time, and he's mean and ugly and he doesn't talk to me like you do…'

It repulses Joey, the idea of Alberto trying to be any kind of father to Oscar. His stomach lurches and he thinks when this is over he'll go have a good vomit down a back-alley.

'And I want you instead, Joey, and then we wouldn't have to move to London, and…'

'Woah, woah, hold on, son! Back up a minute there!' Joey's heart hammers. 'You're movin' to London?'

'Alberto's got a big house there, and we're all going to live in it.' Oscar pauses, makes a clicking noise with his tongue. Something he's copied off Joey. 'I don't want to.'

'I don't blame you,' Joey says. 'I don't want you to either.' He can't believe how calm he is right now, because in spirit he's going around kicking down poles and throttling Roxy and tearing his hair out.

He can't do that in front of Oscar, though. This may well be the last time he ever sees the lad, and he wants Oscar to remember him as a kind and good man, not as the man who started destroying everything he saw out of anger on their last encounter.

Joey takes hold of the boy's shoulders, looks him straight in the eye. 'Oscar, if you're ever in trouble, you call me, okay? When you get to London, write to me with your address, and we can send letters. Remember, you can always count on me, even if you're up there and I'm down here. Okay?'

Oscar nods, looking like he's about to cry. He's not the only one. 'Okay.'

'I love you. Don't forget that, son. I always will.'

'Os-_car!_ Hurry up!' the other kids are back, chucking a ball between them and looking impatient. 'We've been waitin' for you for _aaaages!'_

Oscar looks from Joey to his mates, torn.

'Go and have fun,' Joey says, giving him a little nudge. He can't be all possessive about Oscar, not in front of him, anyhow. And it's better if the lad runs off with his friends, goes and plays a ball game somewhere, is happy and free, rather than having a tearful goodbye. Joey doesn't think he can go much longer without crying, and he doesn't want to prolong this, because then Oscar will see and it'll all be so much worse for him.

So he pulls together a grin. 'Go on, don't wanna get your friends all impatient, do you?'

Oscar shakes his head. He turns to go, then turns back, throwing himself into a tight hug with Joey.

'I love you too,' he says and then he turns for a third time and is off up the path, melding into the group of seven-year-olds with ease, all of them just lively blurs as they run off out of sight.

Joey waits until the last little bit of Oscar has disappeared from his view, and then, true to his word, he goes round a corner and throws up.

* * *

**Sorry about all the drama and the angst. I actually cried a bit when writing the pot scene, but then I'm easily influenced. Heinous as it was, it had to happen though. The Joey-Oscar relationship was hard to write, so I hope I managed to pull it off without looking creepy. Also, Alberto's name was originally Pedro, so if there happen to be any places where I've accidentally written 'Pedro', that's why.  
And of course, I had to put a _little_ mention of Martina in, show he was still thinking about her (though he doesn't really know why at this stage). **

** Next chapter, predictably, is a jump forward, this time it's set _after_ 'At the end of the day.' **

**Preview:** _Martina's never felt the need for one. Joey's becoming obsessed._


	5. The Line of Boswell: 1996

**Oh dear. Domesticity at its most sickening. Be prepared for sap. Well, some sap. There are also a few depressing moments, and this chapter briefly (just briefly, mind) deals with the idea that Martina might have undiagnosed depression.**

**Anyway, this is another jump forward, the furthest forward I've been so far. I'm sorry in advance for it, but I thought I had to explore this issue. I had to do a little bit of research for this one, so I hope it's realistic enough.**

**Just a note about respective ages before I begin: in this fic I'm working under the mentality that when the show started Joey was 29 and Martina 27. When this chapter starts it's early in the year so they're around 38 and 36 respectively.**

**Warnings:-Emotional instability. Bit of depression. Hormones. Nightmares. And lots of late night discussions.**

* * *

**The Line of Boswell  
****1996**

_Martina's never felt the need for one. Joey's becoming obsessed._

_~X~X_

Joey's been taken with an idea. And Martina doesn't like it.

It's a mad idea. A preposterous one. And one she can't stomach.

Joey wants children.

And not in a vague, off-handed, occasionally casually mentioning it sort of way. It's a full-bodied, sitting down and having talks and saying 'we should have children' sort of way. It's a bringing home brochures from the doctor's surgery and child-rearing books sort of way. He's serious. He really means it. He's determined.

And Martina doesn't like it one bit.

It isn't as if she doesn't know _why_ he wants one (_one, or two…maybe three_ were his exact words, she recalls, but even one is bad enough). And though it's a perfectly _understandable_ reason, given what he's been through in the last few years, even though she thinks she might even have felt the same, had she been in the same situation, Martina doesn't think it's a _good enough_ reason to go to all that effort, to get a whole human life out there.

He misses Roxy's son.

She doesn't blame him. She gets it, really she does. The kid had been without a father, not belonging to Roxy's first husband. Joey had started seeing Roxy again. He'd grown to love him, had sort of adopted him, become a surrogate father. And when Roxy left him, forbade him any sort of visitation, seeing as he had no legal rights, he was left with a void he now wants to fill. That's all well and good, and it's perfectly acceptable for him to pine now and then. But to have a child just to replace the one he's lost is just not right. It's just not on.

Martina won't do it.

She knows too well the feeling of being used- of being wanted around for mere convenience, and it's something she wouldn't wish on anyone, ever.

'That's _not_ why, sweetheart, and you know it!' Joey protests when she confronts him with the matter. 'I love Oscar- always will, but even if I still had 'im I'd have wanted some more o' me own anyway! I want a _fam-i-ly_, Martina! It's all I've ever wanted!'

'You've _got_ a family,' she says, deliberately being harsh in an attempt to get it into his mind that she's closed to the idea. 'The great clan o' Boswell is quite big enough as it is, without you 'avin' ter add to it. Be happy with what you 'ave.'

'You know that's not what I meant,' says Joey, coming to sit down beside her. 'That's the family I was born into, the one I come from. I want one of me very own.'

He kisses the top of her head. 'With you.'

Martina's still not very convinced. No matter what he says, no matter how many other excuses he comes up with to pacify her, a little part of the reason will always be that he wants a substitute for Oscar. And a substitute she will not provide.

'I don't want ter hear about this again,' she says.

She gets up, puts her coat on and goes to work.

Conversation done.

* * *

Except it isn't.

Martina makes up her mind to put the idea out of her head. But everything, everyone that comes into the Social Security building today somehow has to remind her.

'I've been burgled,' the young woman sitting at her desk says.

Martina rolls her eyes, gets out a form. 'Go on.'

'They took me washing machine…' she rattles off a list of expensive clothes that were in there, the components of which include cashmere and silk, 'and they took the satellite dish for me television, and…'

'So, what you're really sayin' is they didn't take anythin' you couldn't live without.' Martina's being harsh, knows this, but if she's not in the mood for this sort of pathetic lie, she's not in the mood. And she certainly isn't today. 'We pay for essentials, not luxuries. And you do not need satellite dishes and silk dresses. Those aren't considered an essential part o'life.'

'Oh, but I _do_ need all that,' the woman says defiantly, 'I was gonna sell then to buy meself things for when the baby arrives,' she puts a hand down on her stomach, and Martina notices for the first time that her client is heavily pregnant. She frowns, remembering her conversation with Joey this morning, and her mood darkens from grey to black.

'Next!' she calls without any further elaboration.

'You _are_ 'eartless! I'm havin' a baby- I need money!'

'Next!' Martina calls again.

It isn't the best thing to have done, she realises when her next victim seats himself in front of her. She's gone from bad to worse.

It's Billy Boswell.

'Me giro 'asn't come.'

'I get a lot o' complaints about that. I think you should speak ter the post office. We send them out on a specified date- and we are _never late with them_. What 'appens ter them after we post 'em out is to do with the post office, not us.'

'I can't wait 'til it comes!'

'Go and not wait somewhere else.'

'I need money now!'

'Go and sell yer sandwiches, then.'

'That doesn't make much! I 'ave got a _child_ to support, don't forget that!'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'Well maybe if you'd 'ave been a bit more careful, Mister Boswell, you wouldn't 'ave, and then you wouldn't 'ave ter worry about all this marriage and divorce business, and all this child support you _supposedly_ need ter be payin'.'

Billy is aghast. 'Are you sayin' I shouldn't have 'ad _my baby_?' He points an accusing finger at her. 'You're 'orrible, you are.'

What is it with everyone and babies? Is she the only one that's sane? Babies are _not_ the only thing worth living for, for goodness' sake! She is not 'horrible' for pointing out the obvious.

'I couldn't care _less_ about yer baby, and all that rubbish,' she says, 'you're just usin' it as an excuse ter bleed the state dry, and it's my job, Mister Boswell, to ensure that doesn't 'appen.'

Maybe that was a bit nasty. She doesn't retract it, though.

'I'm gonna tell Joey on you!'

Martina laughs out loud at this. Billy Boswell never really grew up- he still behaves like a child, and in a way, she supposes, that's Joey's fault, still treating him like a 'baby lad' even now he's in his mid-twenties. He's never learned to take it like a man, still runs to whatever familial authority he can the moment things get tough.

'Ooh, and what d'you suppose he'll _do_ to me?' she mocks. 'Knowin' that I was simply _doin' me job-_ it's _unthinkable!_'

Billy's still not all that good at picking up sarcasm either.

'Hopefully he'll tell you off for bein' so 'orrible!'

'And if 'e tries, I will put 'im in 'is place.' She leans forward with a sinister smile. 'I could eat your Joey fer breakfast- there is no way, Mister Boswell, he will ever 'ave control over what I say or do.'

Another rather harsh sentence, and she chalks this one up to her own determination regarding the children issue. She's trying to convince herself, as much as anything, that Joey will never be able to coax her or force her into anything she doesn't want to do. Having children included.

'Next!' she shouts. Billy lingers, on the verge of saying something else, but the man skulking up to the counter is twice his size, and by the looks of him, about to start yelling. He slinks off.

The hulking, beefy man takes his place. Martina gets ready for whatever he's going to start shouting.

'My wife's havin' a baby,' he says, his voice a lot higher-pitched than she's been expecting, and whiny, too, 'and I need money to support it!'

Martina feels like tearing her hair out. _Give me strength_.

* * *

'Eh, sweetheart, what did you say to our Billy today?'

Martina pushes past him without answering, heading for the stairs. She just can't stand this.

'He was really cut up, you know-you weren't deliberately tryin' to upset 'im, were you?'

She mutters something about his brother 'annoying her' and keeps on up the staircase, disregarding the fact that he's still calling up after her.

'Martina?'

'Leave me alone,' she growls, walking right into the bedroom and shutting the door hard behind her.

She tosses her jacket onto the bed, kicks off her shoes, stares at herself in the mirror in the dresser. Are those _tears?_ Why? She's got no reason to be upset. They must just be coming because she's so _tired_. That's all it is.

She lays back on the bed, breathes in and out, trying to chase the stress away.

The bedroom door creaks.

'Greetings!'

Martina turns away from him, staring fixedly in the direction of the window. Outside, a pigeon flies past. She tries to count the white spots on its neck before it disappears from view.

He sits down on his side of the bed, shuffles closer to her, prods her in the back.

'Hey. Martina.'

'What?' she demands.

'Has somethin' upset you, sweetheart?'

How perceptive. _Of course it 'as, you pillock_.

Problem is she doesn't know what has. It can't be all his talk about children this morning- that was hours ago- but then again she's still annoyed about it. It might be all the stress linked with work- that does often get her down, though not like this.

'Was it somethin' Billy said? He said you were bein' really cruel today- even more than _usual_, that is.' She detects the slight flavouring of humour in his voice, but it has no effect on her. If that's the best he can do to try and cheer her up, he might as well not bother.

She doesn't respond to his questions.

_'Sweetheart_,' Joey cajoles, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. 'Speak to me.'

'What do you want me ter say, Joey?'

'Well, some indication that you're still in there might be nice, that's all.'

'I'm still in 'ere,' she says flatly.

'_That's _my girl. Nice bit o' sarcasm there.' He gives her shoulder a squeeze. 'Now, are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or am I gonna have to use other methods of persuasion?'

_That_ is a lead if ever there was one. Martina can't resist a bit of bait like that. She half-sits up, faces him, her head resting on her elbow.

'Oh, and what do you know about _persuadin'_, Mister Boswell? When was the last time you actually got a form out o' me down the DHSS?'

Joey doesn't answer her, takes her hand and kisses it instead.

'Billy mentioned you sayin' somethin' about _eatin' me for breakfast_. Sounds positively _dirty_, that does.' He grins at her, kisses her hand again, then her wrist, and starts up her arm.

Martina is unresponsive. She knows with alarming clarity what he has in mind, and it's putting her off.

She snatches her arm away. 'You're only thinkin' about _babies_.'

'Why, Martina,' Joey snorts, 'what sort of man do you think I am? You can get arrested for 'avin' those sorts o' thoughts!'

'Go and wash yer mouth out!' she snaps. 'That's not what I meant, and _you know it_. And makin' pathetic little jokes like that is not gonna sway me.'

Joey sighs. 'Why are you so against the idea, sunshine?'

'You know full well why. We are not gonna 'ave a baby just so you can have somethin' to replace Oscar.'

He looks hurt by her comment- hurt and verging on angry. 'I told you this mornin', _didn't I_- that wasn't the reason. I want me own, Martina. _Our_ own- I thought you'd want that too…' he trails off, looks at her. 'Are you _sure_ you're a _woman?_ I thought that's what they all wanted!'

'Well _not me_,' she says from between gritted teeth.

'Seriously,' he takes hold of her, pulls her closer, looking at her face for something that might explain her feelings to him, because he, it's obvious, doesn't understand them, 'the Oscar thing aside- and you_ know_ it wouldn't be like that, anyway, because I'd love this kid for who _they were_, not who I used to have- what have you got against the idea of 'avin' children?'

Martina pauses, thinking.

'C'mon, sweetheart- it'd be fantastic! Think about it, Martina- with your clever, DHSS-lady mind and my all-round brilliance and Boswell cunnin'- our children could rule the world!'

'Good grief. More cunning Boswells. Doesn't even bear thinkin' about.'

He's disappointed his speech hasn't had the desired effect on her, has seemingly added another reason to the list of cons.

'Can't you just tell me, in all honesty, why not?'

'I'm not discussin' this with you, Joey.'

_'Sweetheart…'_

Martina's impervious to his pleas. She pushes him off of her.

This subject is not, repeat _not_ open to negotiation.

She's made her mind up.

And if he's going to keep going on about this, he can sleep on the sofa tonight.

* * *

Martina jolts to her senses at three in the morning for no apparent reason. Her instinctive reaction is to look to her right for Joey- often he disturbs her when he comes in after doing his not-so-secret and often not-so-legal night time jobs- but no, he's sleeping soundly at her side.

She tut-sighs, sits up, wraps her arms round her knees and stares off into the darkness.

What is it that's wrong here? Why can't she sleep?

Well, it's because of this ridiculous baby thing, that's why.

And it isn't just Oscar, she realises now, now that she's thinking about it properly. There are so many reasons why not.

For one thing, it's simply too late. Joey's going to be thirty-nine next month, she'll be thirty-seven in October. It's too late to be thinking about starting a family.

And it isn't just that, either. She's back on the same old issue again, but she doesn't want to be taking _yet another_ risk. It was hard for her to end things with Shifty, it was hard for her to start things with Joey, getting married was a hassle. Granted, they were all things that ended in a change for the better, but she'd rather quit while she's ahead.

For the first time since she can remember when she's _actually_ content with her lot in life, she's happy with the way things are, and she doesn't want to have to start adapting to something new. She'd thought that part of her life was supposed to be over now. She's comfortably settled, she's got a husband who loves her- and she loves him- and that's enough of a taste of happiness for her. She's got a pleasant little life, and that's all she ever wanted, and to put that on the line, to possibly sacrifice that just to chase a more out-of-reach rainbow is something she just doesn't want to do.

Unfortunately for her, it's exactly the sort of thing Joey Boswell _would_ want to do. The Boswells are all risk-takers, ever in search of a little more, never just content with what they've got. And so Joey keeps on dropping hints about it. And not so subtle ones at that.

It's not that she dislikes children. She gets on well enough with Aveline's two when they go to visit, simply _adores _Adrian's sons- they've all got a miniature version of the terrified/glazed look. Francesca is a different matter, but then she's just not a likeable person, and Martina doesn't hold her as a strike against offspring in general.

It's just that she's never felt she needed one. She knows that's not normal, especially at her age- tick-tock and all that- but the fact is, she's pretty much resigned herself to the fact that she's not going to end up with any, and she's not the least bit bothered by that.

It wouldn't have been possible before- was never an option when she was living in not-so-wedded not-so-bliss with Shifty. The environment was too unstable. No-one should have to grow up in something like that, and so she'd never even entertained the notion, not for one minute. Then again, neither had Shifty.

And by now, she's just stopped thinking about it, is perfectly ready to devote herself to Joey and her, her and Joey, just the two of them. She doesn't need the addition of a third party, feels, in fact, that it'd probably subtract from their happiness rather than add to it.

Martina was always a sulky little girl- nothing much has changed, she thinks wryly- not bubbly or exuberant like children are typically depicted to be. Granted, this might be due to her upbringing. Born as an accident- and her parents made no secret of the fact- she came at a bad time indeed, seventeen years after her brother, who'd just entered a world of problems with alcohol and gone off the rails, leaving her parents in despair when she'd popped into the world and added one more problem to their already growing list.

And though this child, this hypothetical child, because there isn't one, never will be if she has her way, would be vastly more wanted and anticipated, she's still inclined to think that genetics would doom it to be as depressed as she was. As she still is, a lot of the time, despite how happy she is with Joey on the whole. It doesn't take a big, significant reason for her to find herself feeling miserable. She thinks sometimes she should get herself diagnosed, but then that would just be another horrible thing to have to go through, and if she doesn't know, at least she doesn't have to go through any bother about it.

And because of this, because of all these reasons, she's determined not to have children. She makes a show of rattling her pills each morning- _look, I'm not taking any chances, Joey, it's not happening, deal with it-_ walks past baby carriages without so much as a glance inside, changes the subject pointedly if the conversation ever veers in the direction of procreation.

She's not having one. She doesn't want one. They don't need one, end of.

Thing is, Joey's begun to obsess. He treats the issue like a hedonistic need- feels he needs one like he needs air or food. The look on his face is always so hopeful, so pleading. His eyes fairly light up if anyone utters a word that so much as _sounds_ like 'baby' or 'child'. They instantly become downcast when she takes a pill.

And even though she says so often, has always said, from the moment she met Joey, that plays for sympathy and pity have no effect on her, when she sees that pathetic look on his face a little bubble wells up inside her heart. She doesn't know what's possessing her. She should be able to see right through this. Rationally, she shouldn't fall for it, logically she should be unmoved.

But she does, and she is moved, and whatever it is keeps possessing her regardless of her own conscience telling her not to let it.

And it's this that prompts her to put her pill down the sink one morning when Joey's not looking.

* * *

She should've seen it coming- after all, she has planned it- but still, when it happens, it's a shock.

She's brought all this on herself, Martina realises. She could have stayed strong, resisted the temptation, but no, every morning for months now she's been deftly disposing of her pills, whilst still pretending to Joey she's taking them. The idea is to make it look like an accident, so he'll never know she's given in. She doesn't think she can bear the smugness that would undoubtedly ensue if he finds out he's won. Martina hates losing a battle, and she especially hates losing it to Joey.

But really, that's what she's done. Because whether she lets on or not, all his pleading and begging and sad looks have done the trick, have actually _worked _on her.

And now it's happened.

Martina supposes she should be happy about that.

She isn't.

She doesn't really know what to think, can't get further into the future than what Joey's reaction will be when she breaks the news. He'll be smug, or proud- or worse, excited.

_Why did I do this?_ she asks herself in desperation. _Joey's got enough to be going on with. He'd have gotten over it in time, if I'd stuck to me guns. And instead I went and did it anyway. Why?_

She isn't quite sure how best to put it to Joey, so she tells him straight out, the instant he walks through the door.

The look on Joey's face is one of those things that, in her professional context, in her out-to-get-him context, she would be taking a Polaroid of. But she's not out to get him at the moment, and she's not in the mood for teasing.

There's a long pause.

'Are you sure?'

It's taken him nearly five minutes to come up with _that?_

'What an original question,' she says flatly.

'Martina,' Joey grabs her arms, 'are you positive- one hundred per cent certain?'

'_No,_ Joey, I said it because I felt like a laugh,' she clenches her fists, 'o' _course_ I'm certain!'

Joey drops her arms, paces. Martina's eyes follow him, her brow furrowing. She'd been expecting a bit more of a reaction than _this_.

Anger wells up inside her and she purses her lips, her chest puffing out as she inhales.

'I thought you'd be _pleased.' I wouldn't have bothered otherwise,_ she adds in her mind.

He turns back to her, and for a moment he can't force down his enormous grin, but then he clocks her face and his mouth settles down into a more neutral expression.

'Well, of course I am, sunshine- you know I wanted this- but are you…are you okay?'

She doesn't answer him. Martina doesn't know if she's okay or not. Joey's happy, so some part of her plan must have worked.

He moves to sit beside her. 'I mean I know you didn't…it's just you said you wouldn't…' his eyes suddenly widen in fear. 'You're not gonna get rid of it, are you?'

'I wouldn't do that and you know it.' She sighs, flips back her hair with one hand. He catches hold of it, kisses it, rakes his own hand through her hair.

'How'd this happen, anyway?'

Joey certainly is Mister Cliché-Man today. That's the second unimaginative question in a row. Martina rolls her eyes.

'Would you like me ter explain with a diagram, or should I tell you the story of what 'appens when a man and a woman love each other very much?'

Joey laughs, some of the tension lines on his forehead and around his eyes subsiding. 'Oh, you know what I mean, sweetheart! You've been so…_meticulous_…in makin' sure you won't…'

Ah. Yes. That. Well, she thinks, looking at his face, at his concern for her feelings on the matter battling visibly with his own ecstasy at the news, perhaps she might tell him it wasn't such an accident after all…some day. But not today. She's been generous enough to him, without giving him a triumphant victory as well.

So she just shrugs it off nonchalantly, as if the reasoning behind the 'accident' matters little to her.

And then the ecstasy manages to win Joey's facial battle, and he's grinning again, kissing her over and over.

'You do know what this means, don't you?'

'The Boswells march on for another generation?'

'Well, of course, that is a rather important factor to be noted, sweetheart- but even more importantly,' he's got hold of her shoulders, practically shaking her in his excitement, 'Martina, sweetheart, we're havin' a _baby_!'

'I'm aware of that.' She's still not sure if she's happy about this, but she puts on a smirk for Joey's benefit. After all, like he says, there's nothing she can do about it. It's happening whether she likes it or not.

'And that's a good thing, is it?'

She's perfected the art of the tease so well she can do it when she doesn't really mean it, and it very nearly almost sounds the same. Normally, Joey would be able to detect the marginal change in her tone of voice, notice that the slant of her eyebrow is a little harsher than normal, that it's forced. But he's too excited, and it clouds his judgement.

'It's fantastic, sweetheart! _Fantastic!_'

Martina doesn't join in with his celebrating. Whether or not this is 'fantastic' remains to be seen.

* * *

Martina's only been pregnant for maybe a couple of months, but already she hates it. She hates waking up in the morning with the urge to vomit out the contents of her stomach. She hates always feeling cramped and sore and fatigued, and hates the fact that sometimes the smell of her own cooking nauseates her.

And it's going to get worse before it's over, she knows _that_. She's going to get fat. There's going to be pain. And then at the end of it all, she'll be left with a baby and expected to love it and look after it. She doesn't like it _now_, and she can't even see it yet.

And what's more, her in-laws have become positively intolerable. The instant Joey blabbed (_despite_ her telling him not to, she might add) every Boswell seemed to crawl out of the woodwork and descend upon her with congratulations and presents. She doesn't want them. She doesn't want all their second-hand advice, either, or their assumptions that she's even nearly as excited about it as they are.

She can't bring herself to be excited about it at all.

Joey makes up for her lack of enthusiasm, though, overcompensates, even. He can barely talk about anything else, and she's getting sick of listening to all his ridiculous ideas of how he's going to bring it up to be a clever, cunning Boswell, teach it everything he knows. He's going on and on and on about all sorts of rubbish until she tells him to just_ shut up_, because he's doing her head in.

That's another thing she has to contend with. The mood swings. She gets angrier even more easily than normal, even cries, sometimes- and Martina never cries, not if she can help it. She's spent so long teaching herself how _not_ to cry in nearly all situations. But nowadays she _can't_ help it, and she loses it over the most insignificant, petty little things imaginable.

This morning it's the fact that Joey hasn't made the bed properly that's set her off. He doesn't normally do it, she supposes she should be pleased he has, but she always stacks the pillows in twos, and she always folds a bit of the lower sheet over the top of the others, and Joey's just pulled the lot flat and shoved the pillows every which way.

And this makes her extremely, inexplicably cross.

She screams at him for a good fifteen minutes before storming downstairs, and she's sulking on the sofa when the door creaks.

'Greetings,' Joey says sheepishly. Martina determinedly ignores him.

'I brought you some tea.' He's grovelling- and so he should be. It's totally disgraceful, the way he's made the bed. Such a mess. How dare he.

She takes the tea though, and sips it.

'Ugh!' She drops the cup to the saucer with a clatter, and Joey looks at her with confusion.

'Somethin' wrong, sweetheart?'

'This is disgusting!' And she bursts into tears.

Joey has his arms round her in an instant, petting and cradling her. 'What's the matter, sweetheart? What's brought this on, eh?'

'I don't know! I don't know!' she sobs into his shoulder. And she doesn't know. This is totally unlike her in every respect.

'Hey, sweetheart, shh,' he cradles her closer, strokes her hair, 'it's just hormones, you'll be okay- you'll be back to your usual, self, shoutin' _next_ and tellin' me you're out to get me in no time.'

'No time' meaning seven months or thereabouts. Months and months of this, or if not this, undoubtedly worse things.

'I don't want to do this.'

'Sweetheart, I know it's all a bit rough now- but it'll get better, I promise you. It'll be worth it in the end, when the baby's born.'

'Will it?' Martina says. She's not so sure of that, to be honest.

* * *

It's not that she isn't _trying_ to be happy about this. Heaven knows she's wearing herself out trying to be happy about it.

But Martina can't help feeling something's missing. She should be feeling some sort of connection, some sort of bond with the baby by now. That's normal, isn't it?

Only she isn't. She doesn't feel anything for it, really. If anything, it annoys her. It's just this thing that's…_there_, and getting in the way, somehow, even though it's not really started to show yet, and doing all sorts of horrible things to her body and her common sense. She can't even feel enthusiastic about getting involved in any of the actual process. It's Joey who asks all the questions when they go for the scans and check-ups, Joey who's planning ahead financially for this baby (and by this she means constantly asking obnoxious questions about what sort of benefits it might be able to receive from the Social Security), Joey who's the one going positively gushy.

And, if she's honest with herself, Martina's getting a bit jealous. She wants to be able to love it the way Joey does, even though it's not born yet, but she just doesn't know how to.

This evening, in particular, it's really getting on her nerves. She's had a long, not to mention _stressful_ day at work, and she's trying to watch the telly in peace- and Joey's got his head resting on her stomach, talking to the baby.

She isn't listening to a lot of what he's saying- she's deliberately ignoring him, as a matter of fact- but she catches a few snippets here and there, and the topics seem to range from how he's thinking of decorating the baby's room to the way he narrowly dodged a car crash this morning to Billy and his sandwich business. He's just telling that baby _everything_, as if it's the most natural thing in the world to be talking to someone who hasn't even fully formed yet, and can't understand you.

'How d'you do that?' she demands. 'How can you just _do that_?'

Joey looks up at her and frowns. 'Do what, sweetheart?'

'Just…_that_!' she makes a vicious gesture with her hands, trying to sum up all her feelings. 'How can you just talk to it like that? It's not…it's not…' she can't even finish, she doesn't know she _can_ explain what she's feeling. Joey's watching her with some confusion and no small amount of concern. She swallows, comes out with the most simple thought that's been troubling her. 'I don't…I can't, you know…sort of…_love_ it that way.'

Joey stares at her sadly.

'I just can't…oh, don't look at me like that. It's not like I 'aven't _tried_, I just…it doesn't feel real, somehow. It's like something's not there that should be.'

Joey sits up, wraps his arm round her shoulders, tucks her against his side. 'Maybe you just need to connect with 'im a bit more, sweetheart, that's all.'

Martina doesn't like Joey calling the baby 'him.' Makes her worry he's thinking of Oscar. She's calling it an 'it' though, so she can hardly talk.

'How?' How can she connect with it? 'If you're suggestin' natterin' away to it like you do…'

He nods, his face dead serious.

'Just give it a try.'

* * *

So she does, but not when Joey's around to see, to make fun of her. She sits on the bed and puts her hands on her stomach, trying to get into the right frame of mind, trying to feel even the tiniest spark of the connection she's supposed to have.

'Hello…baby.'

This is bloody embarrassing. She can just imagine Joey's face if he could see her now. She'd want to punch it. She maybe _would_, given her current emotional instability.

She carries on, going red in the face even though there's no-one else around.

'So. Joey…yer..._Dad_, I suppose, isn't he…he said I should talk ter you. You probably know 'im, he gets in touch with yer all the time…' she looks down at herself, throws her hands up. 'Listen ter me. What am I doin'? This is pointless! It's not gonna work.'

She informs Joey later of her failed attempt, if only because she wants him to know he's wrong. He doesn't laugh, as she's been expecting. Instead, he tells her to keep at it.

* * *

And so, humiliating as it still feels, Martina works out a routine, tries to stick with it. She converses with the baby for ten minutes after she wakes up, ten minutes during her lunch break and ten minutes before she goes to bed. She still feels like an idiot, still can't see the point. But she perseveres anyway, because her stubbornness is beginning to kick in, and she's determined to prove Joey wrong, _prove_ that all this so-called bonding is doing nothing at all.

And then, out of the blue, at around eleven weeks, she feels a flutter. Just a little tap, really, and she's positive she was just imagining it.

But she touches her midriff all the same.

She's at work when it happens, dealing with an annoying cow who keeps going on about her teenage son's motorbike accident, but as soon as the sensation passes through her she stops taking notes, staring down at herself instead.

'Eh- aren't you gonna give me a form or somethin'?'

The little flutter comes again. It feels a bit like she's swallowed a goldfish.

A smile breaks out on Martina's face without her knowledge.

'Hello,' she whispers.

'You're not even listenin' to me, you…you Dolly Day-dream!' The woman at her counter shrieks. 'Pay attention to me- do what you're paid to do!'

Martina looks up slowly, in an unprecedented good mood. 'Next!' she chimes.

'Eh! You're not finished with me yet!'

Martina merely drops the 'closed' sign onto her desk and walks off into the other room.

* * *

'We 'ad Mister Wilson in today. I see 'im a lot, you know. Never _can _wait 'is turn.' Martina sighs, adjusting herself as the baby moves. It does it on and off now, some days hardly at all, some days quite a lot, and she's beginning to be able to tell the difference between general thrashing and when it's annoyed or uncomfortable. Well, she likes to think so, anyway. It gives the general illusion that something's beginning to happen between them.

'He comes _bargin'_ up ter the desk- frightened the life out o' the girl I was servin', demandin' 'is money- he raised 'is fist, you know…'

From the armchair on the other side of the room, Joey laughs softly to himself. Martina stops what she's doing and looks up to glare at him.

'And what are _you_ sniggerin' at?'

'For somethin' that's '_not workin'_' you seem to be doin' an awful lot of it.'

'I'm only doin' what you suggested, _Mister Boswell.'_

'I know, dear lady, I know.' He flashes his teeth at her. 'Oh, I do so love bein' right.'

'You're not _right_,' Martina says, and chucks a cushion at him.

* * *

Martina's frightened- _terrified_ in fact, and she doesn't know why.

Nor does she know where she is, or what she's doing there. She seems to be surrounded by concrete, and someone's laughing at her.

It's Shifty.

'Get away from me,' she tells him.

'_Noo,_ you don't want me to go.' He leans toward her.

'Get away from me!' she shrieks.

And then it isn't Shifty, it's that bloke- the one with no name that seems to harass Joey, and he's coming at her all sinister-like, and now it's Mr. Wilson and now she can't even tell and she's backed into a corner, and what about the baby, what's going to happen to the baby if he hurts her?

_Martina! Martina!_

Joey's calling her from far away, his voice almost misty in quality, but she can't find him, and she can't get out, and _what about the baby?!_

_Martina! MARTINA!_

'Martina!'

And then Martina's opening her eyes, is sitting up with a cry of fear, and Joey's shaking her.

'Martina, calm down!'

She blinks. It's dark. They're in bed.

'Are you okay, sweetheart?'

She peers at Joey through the darkness and it hits her. It was a dream.

The relief is enormous. Martina flings her arms round Joey in an uncharacteristic display, clinging to him.

'Hey, _hey_, sweetheart, it was just a dream…' but he holds her tightly, and it's only as it subsides that she realises she's been shaking.

'I know,' she sighs, pulling away and quickly regaining control of herself, 'I know. I was just so worried…'

'What was it that upset you? You never get this worked up about dreams…'

'I just…I thought somethin' was gonna 'appen ter the baby, and…'

She stops short as she realises- realises just what this means. Martina's filled with a wonderful warmth, and tears form in her eyes.

'You _do_ love it, don't you?'

Martina nods, wiping away the tears. 'I couldn't bear the idea of somethin' 'appenin' to it, not now…'

'So you really do…want it?'

She tuts. 'O' _course_ I want it. I wouldn't 'ave 'ad it in the first place if I didn't, would I?'

'_Yeah_, but that was an accident…'

Martina narrows her eyes but smiles.

'Accident my foot, Joey Boswell. I knew exactly what I was doin'.'

She doesn't know whether or not Joey believes her, but he's delighted by her change of heart nonetheless.

'Come 'ere, you,' he says, pulling her close and kissing her.

The baby moves. Martina guides Joey's hand to her stomach to feel. And this time, when Joey grins enthusiastically, she grins back at him.

* * *

At sixteen weeks, they ask to know the gender.

Martina knows Joey would be ecstatic either way, knows now she'd love either kind of baby, now she's realised she _does_ love it, but she's secretly pleased it's a girl. She'd been hoping it would be, because if it'd been a son, she'd have worried Joey was thinking of it as an Oscar, version two.

And because now she's given him something he's never had before, something he never had with Roxy. Something that he's never experienced, and which he can experience for the first time with her and her alone. Roxy _lent_ him a son. She's _giving_ him a daughter.

'A girl! Aw, _hey_, isn't that _fantastic_, Martina?'

She doesn't like to agree with Joey often, but she readily agrees with this.

It _is_ fantastic. And this time, it really is.

* * *

Naturally, the next obstacle in the road is choosing a name. Martina should've known it wouldn't be simple- making a decision never is when Joey's involved. It took them ages to agree on how to decorate their house (there's bound to be another argument when it comes to decorating the baby's room, and she isn't looking forward to that either), and it seems their incompatible tastes carry over to names, too.

For starters, Joey's either decided not to take this seriously, or to be insufferably egotistical. His first preference is Josie.

'_Why_?' Martina asks, suspicious she knows the answer already.

'_Well_, it is tradition, after all, to name a child after its father…'

'And what century are you livin' in? This isn't the Middle Ages, you know.'

'But admit, it is a splendid name- it's like Joey, but for a _girl_…'

'Does everythin' in life 'ave ter come down ter your _ego_?'

Joey pretends to be wounded. 'Oh, sweetheart, my poor ego doesn't like it when you talk like that…'

It's clear he's just going to be silly about this.

So Martina gets a book.

'Any proper ideas, or am I gonna do this the hard way?'

Joey maintains that Josie_ is_ a proper idea, and so Martina rolls her eyes, opens the book to a random page and starts flicking backwards, reading names at random.

'Primrose?'

'You can't 'ave _that_, it'll make her sound like a nun!'

'Patricia, then.'

'Do you _want_ her to grow up a DHSS lady?'

Martina's made cross by this remark. 'And _what's_ so wrong with a DHSS lady, may I ask?'

'Nothin', sunshine! Nothin'! That's just the sort o' name you can imagine a bad-tempered, frosty-faced…' Joey's list trails off when he's met with undoubtedly the most bad-tempered, frosty-faced expression he's ever seen in his life. He's only joking, of course, but she's still going to seethe about it.

So Martina suggests _Lillian _in retaliation. Joey doesn't speak to her for twenty minutes.

She sits with her arms crossed until he comes out of his childish sulk, and turns back to the book, flicking further towards the front.

'Carmen?'

'Oh, not _Carmen_, Martina! Didn't I tell you about our Adrian's Carmen?'

'Oh. Yeah.'

She makes a few more suggestions, and every time Joey finds something to complain about.

'Well, then, why don't you come up with something instead of just pickin' ter pieces all my suggestions?' she snaps, after he rejects what has to be the twentieth or thirtieth name in a row.

Joey ponders. 'Josie.'

'For the last time, _no!_'

* * *

Martina's sitting reading through a stack of paperwork, trying to force her eyes to stay open long enough to get through it all. She's done this every night for the past week now- brought work home- because try as she might she can't stay focussed anymore. She's finding herself either daydreaming or almost dozing off far too often these days, catching herself just in time, and she finds she's looking forward to her maternity leave more and more as it draws closer. What she'll do with all that time, though, she's not entirely sure. She hates being idle.

'_Again_, sweetheart?'

Joey flicks a finger over the papers in her hands with a not-so-serious tut. 'Gonna have to give the DHSS a piece of me mind, aren't I?'

'I fell behind,' she mutters, not caring enough to make something of it.

Joey shrugs, then with a dramatic yawn, flops down across the length of the sofa, laying his head in her lap. Martina rolls her eyes. The concept of 'personal space' and Joey seem not to be acquainted at all, sometimes. She holds the papers over his head and reads on regardless.

'What do you think of Belle?' The question is sudden, and she pauses, putting her work aside to stare down at him strangely.

'What bell?' Martina asks, not sure if she's heard right. She looks round the room, trying to work out what he's referring to.

'No, no, _Belle_. As in 'beautiful'. As in, for the baby.'

'That's daft.'

Joey is visibly deflated. 'It's better than Josie, isn't it?'

'Only _marginally, _Joey. It's still probably one o' the worst baby names I've ever 'eard in me life.'

'Why?'

'Where do I begin?' Martina huffs. 'It's back to yer ego again, isn't it? Namin' yer child 'beautiful' is just _askin'_ fer compliments. It's showin' off.'

'But, _sweetheart_, there's no law against bein' proud of somethin' you have.'

'Oh, I know _that_, Mister Boswell. The way you flaunt that Jag o' yours is proof enough o' _that_. Well, you are not givin' our child a boastful name and that's all there is to it.'

'Boastful name!' Joey laughs, burying his face in her side. 'Wherever do you get these expressions from, sunshine?'

'It's pretentious. And _anyway_,_' _Martina continues, because she hasn't finished yet, 'Belle _Boswell_? You don't wanna land the poor thing with a rhymin' name either. Sounds like something your Adrian'd do.'

Joey leans his head back so it slides off her knee, a pensive expression on his face. 'It could be _short_ for somethin', couldn't it?'

Martina sighs. He's not going to give up on this easily. 'Such as?'

'Well, you're the one who bought the name book, sweetheart. Can't you remember any?'

She can't, but she can think of two off the top of her head.

'Belinda?'

'No, couldn't have that. It was one of Billy's girlfriends' names. He'd never forgive me.'

'Isabelle, then.'

'Oh, I don't like _that_.'

'Well that's all I can think of. And anyway, it doesn't matter, 'cause _as I said_, we are not namin' the baby Belle and that's _all there is to it._'

* * *

Except it isn't. It just never is, is it?

Martina bookmarks fifteen more names and Joey turns his nose up at all of them. His heart is quite set on Belle now, and nothing's going to deter him.

But nothing's going to warm Martina to the idea of an egotistical, pretentious, rhyming, downright _stupid_ name.

No name seems to fit, though. She's beginning to get a picture in her head of her daughter, albeit an incredibly blurry one, like she's been snapped by a camera with a faulty lens, and, of course, it's probably nothing like what she's going to look like, or sound like, or act like, but Martina is happy to keep it until she meets her for real.

And none of the names she considers will go with that picture. She tries going by meanings, going by people she likes, opening to a random page and hoping for the best, but none of these approaches work.

'I give up.' She drops the book to one side, looks down at her growing bump. 'What do _you_ think, love?'

The baby squirms a bit.

'You don't want to be called _'Belle'_, do yer?'

A kick.

Martina decides _not_ to interpret that as a sign.

* * *

Martina wakes up when Joey returns from wherever he's been, slinging his coat over the dresser and creeping across the room. She groans. She's tired- the baby's been moving around for ages, and it's taken her a long time to get to sleep in the first place. She doesn't need this now, doesn't need Joey coming in late and disturbing her.

Martina screws her eyes up tightly, tries to ignore him as he climbs into bed, thrashes about trying to get himself comfortable. It's doing her head in- she'll get up and smother him with a pillow in a minute.

Belle stirs inside her and she puts a hand on her stomach in the feeble hope that the baby will go back to sleep or whatever they do, and leave her to get some rest.

'You okay, sweetheart?'

' 'm _tired_,' Martina grumbles. 'And you're not helpin'.'

'Can't get much sleep, eh?'

'Well I'm not gonna get any when you keep yakkin' on, am I?' she snaps. She hears Joey sigh.

'Sorry, sunshine,' she feels his arm snake around her waist and his chin nuzzle against her shoulder. 'You go to sleep.'

Martina wants to point out that it's impossible to do so when Joey's breathing down her neck and absently tracing patterns on her stomach, and Belle's coming back to life. But she's becoming too exhausted even to argue at this point, so she just lies there, silently fuming while Joey slips away into slumber.

Her eyes are heavy, but whenever she shuts them they automatically open up again, and she resigns herself to staying awake with her thoughts.

One of them is particularly worrying. When did she start referring to the baby as 'Belle'?

* * *

She must drift off at some point, because come morning she finds herself opening her eyes, her head resting on Joey's chest. Something soft and silky- quite an expensive fabric, by the feel of it, rubs against her cheek, and Martina notes that Joey's still fully dressed from his escapades last night. She leans over him, smiling fondly.

'You know what's been gettin' at me lately?' she asks, idly running a finger down the buttons of Joey's shirt, ' what am I gonna tell the baby about all these mysterious disappearances you keep makin'? She's bound ter notice eventually that you're a crook.'

Joey laughs and reaches up to kiss her forehead. 'And here's me thinkin' you'd have told her all about my shady dealings already. You never stop chattin' to her these days!

'What about Annabelle?' She doesn't even know where that came from- she just opened her mouth and there it was. She _had_ originally intended to deliver a cutting retort to his comment.

Joey's eyes light up. 'For the baby?'

'No, fer me new desk at the Social Security. O' _course_ for the baby!'

_'Annabelle_,' Joey tries it out on his tongue a few times, stressing the different syllables, 'you may have got somethin' there, sweetheart. I like it.'

'Well, it can be Belle fer short, can't it? If _absolutely necessary._ Seein' as 'ow you're not even gonna _think_ about other names.'

And then he grins at her. '_And_ you're concedin' to boot. I like it a lot.'

'I'm not _concedin'_,' she insists, glaring. 'I don't concede ter _you_, Joey Boswell- never in me life.'

'Except for admittin' you loved me, marryin' me, givin' me forms, sometimes, and…'

She smacks him to stop his list from going on.

'So, not so pretentious after all, then?' Joey asks.

'That remains to be seen. Give us the book.'

Joey wriggles his arm out of the blankets, reaches over to where the name book sits on the bedside table.

'Annabelle…' he thumbs through the pages, snorts and then holds it out for her to see.

_Variant of Annabel._

'Informative.'

Joey flicks to 'Annabel.'

_Variant of Amabel._

'This book's doin' it on purpose!' he cries. Martina smirks at his impatience, takes it from him, turns to Amabel.

_Medieval feminine form of Amabilis._

This time they both laugh, because it is- this book is deliberately withholding the meaning from them.

'One last try?' Joey asks.

Martina runs her finger down the page, looking for it.

'There. 'Loveable'. S'pose that'll do.'

'You can't say that's pretentious, sweetheart.'

'_Well_…' she makes a gesture with her hand, tipping it from side to side, 'just a little, perhaps. But I suppose it wouldn't be a Boswell baby without _some_ degree o' pretention, would it?'

'I do love it when you concede.'

The book's still in her hand, and it's too good an opportunity to pass up thwacking him over the head with it.

She does have to admit though, he's been right about quite a few things. Chasing that one last out-of-reach rainbow _has_ been worth it after all, so far. And it's going to get better, she's sure about that. It'll be the two of them, _with_ Belle, and she _will _add to their happiness, rather than subtract from it. They'll be happy. She knows they will. For once in her life, she knows this for certain.

Joey rubs his head. 'That's a lovely way of sayin' _good mornin'_, that is.'

She smirks, kisses him. 'Good morning.'

'And a very good mornin' to you too, sweetheart.'

Martina exhales, slowly eases herself up, rubs her stomach. 'Mornin', Belle.'

She hears Joey snicker.

'Oh, _shut up._'

* * *

**This was a hard one to tackle, but I always thought Joey would want kids and Martina probably wouldn't. I tried to keep it as un-cliche and as in-character as possible XD.**

**I knew from before I started writing this fic that the baby was going to be called Belle, though originally it was going to be Belinda. I didn't like that though, so she became Annabelle instead. I can see Joey wanting something a bit show-offy for a name, but it had to have a sensible long version because Martina's not going to stand for that XD**

******And credit where credit is due: I found all the name meanings from this site: behind the name dot com (had to do spaces because it won't save it otherwise :P)**

******Next chapter preview:** _It never just rains, does it? It has to pour. And as such, Joey is confronted with two problems at once._


	6. That's What Boswells Do: 1995

**I've been forgetting disclaimers so: I don't own Bread.**

**So, this one's probably my least favourite of the chapters, but ah well. It's a bit of a mess, but it's sort of meant to be, to show that problems aren't always neat and tidy when they come, so Joey's got a minor problem, a major problem and some very messed up thoughts all at once. I mainly wrote it because there's been a lot of Martina angst lately, but in 'At the End of the Day' it was mentioned that Joey admires her strength, and I realised I haven't been showing all that, and I wanted to get across that sometimes Joey's the one with the problems and Martina's the strong one.**

**Anyhow, this is set between the first chapter and the preceding one. Thanks to Torie Rilistkrytcat for having a look over it to make sure it made sense before I posted it. **

* * *

**That's what Boswells do**

**Late 1995-early 1996**

_It never just rains, does it? It has to pour. And as such Joey is confronted with two problems at once._

_~X~X_

The first time she returns, she's standing in the queue for the cash machine on the corner. She stares at Joey and he stares back without saying a word. But he can hear jubilant bells ringing in his ears, and when he starts up his Jag, and the radio plays _Ode to Joy_, he can't help thinking how appropriate it is. And things go swimmingly until she turns to him, says _don't, Joey- because I'm married, that's why._ His hopes are crushed.

The second time she returns, he's cruising down the road in his car, thinking about nothing in particular. The family have all got jobs, and he doesn't know how to spend the day now none of them are at home. And then she appears out of the blue, tapping on the window, begging him to drive her somewhere far away, and Joey is horrified at what's become of her, at the black eye she sports, but amazed that he's somehow been given another chance with her. He gets beaten up for his efforts to protect her, but she's free to be with him now, and they're beginning to fit together again, like they had in the old days.

Until her husband leaves an eighteen-month-old child on his doorstep, and Joey realises Roxy's not as free as he thought.

The third time, she doesn't return personally, but delivers into his mother's unsuspecting hands a letter declaring him the father of her son. And it's this time that they start things up again properly, after a bit of initial uncertainty.

That seems to be a habit of Roxy's- returning when he's least expecting it.

And this time is no exception.

In fact, it comes at the worst possible time.

* * *

He's perfectly content, as he usually is in these situations, sitting in the car, waiting for Martina to finish up at work so he can take her home, mulling over all the current paraphernalia of his life. He's thinking of getting the Jag resprayed soon, something he finds absolutely necessary and Martina thinks is preposterously stupid. She doesn't realise it probably _needs_ it anyway, and it's nothing to do with his new favourite-of-all-time television programme. Well, not _completely_ to do with it, anyhow.

'Just because Inspector Morse 'as a red Jag doesn't mean you need one too,' she tells him every time he brings it up. Very down-to-earth, is Martina, all about practicality. She doesn't let him run with very many of his wild fantasies.

'It's not because of that,' he insists, even though they both know that's not true. 'And _besides_, Morse is a gentleman of sophistication…and cleverness…and style. A man after my own heart.'

'You're not paintin' yer car and that's the end of it.'

And so Joey hasn't, not yet, but it's nothing to do with the fact that she's disallowed it. It's got nothing to do with the fact that Martina calls the shots. Nope, because she doesn't at all. It's just that he hasn't got round to it. And maybe he will. In a sort of off-handed, sneaky way, which he won't tell Martina about 'til after it's done.

Joey watches the small figure descend the stairs from the Social Security building. He climbs out of his Jag, leans against it, striking a pose.

'Greetings!' He throws up his hands to complete the image.

'If only you could see how ridiculous you look.' Martina walks past his open arms, round to her door. 'At least I see you 'aven't gone ahead with that paint job.'

'Yet.'

'And you're not goin' to, either.'

He pretends to be wounded as he climbs in, does his seatbelt up.

'I happen to think me Jag would benefit enormously from a coat of red paint…but if you insist on shatterin' me dreams…'

'You'd get bored of it in about a week, and then you'd want ter change it back. And you'd shell out another few 'undred pounds at _least_ just ter make it black again.'

She's probably right, if he wants to think about it in a practical way. But he won't concede that point.

'And when have I ever been taken to flights of fancy before, sweetheart?'

Martina just raises an eyebrow at him.

Joey laughs and starts the engine.

And then his mobile rings.

'Hello, yes?' he answers while simultaneously trying to execute a three point turn.

'Joey, your Grandad's had a fall!'

Joey steps on it, turning the car right back around and heading for Kelsall Street.

* * *

It's raining outside. Joey sits in the hospital, watching it drizzle down the window and thinking about what a mess this is.

Grandad's completely out of it at the moment, having been given some sort of drug for the pain, his leg propped up and plastered. He'd been on one of his wanders, insisting he could make it all the way up the street without his walking stick, and a car had come barrelling down the road. Grandad had somehow managed to get himself out the way, but in doing so had gone crashing down onto the bitumen and broken it.

'What were you thinkin', son?' he murmurs, but the old man's either asleep or not all here (it's hard to tell, because his eyes are closed) and doesn't reply. 'You know any one of us would've taken you in the car.'

Everyone's been round to see him. The Boswell siblings are visiting in shifts, making sure that no matter what time Grandad wakes up, day or night, there's always someone there for him to wake up to. And as Joey, living in Gateacre, resides fairly far away from this particular hospital, he and Martina have temporarily moved into his old room in Kelsall Street, so Joey doesn't have to drive the distance several times a night.

It should only be for a few days. A week or two at most. The fall's not life-threatening, the doctor has said, the break not too severe- though he'll have to be a lot more careful with himself in future, and he'll be confined to a sitting position and a cast and wheelchair for a long while afterwards, whether he likes it or not. But still, for someone so old, he's in fairly decent shape (Nellie's pleased to hear this and makes self-satisfied comments about the vitamins she puts in his milk), and he'll certainly muddle through.

Even so, they're all still cut up about it. Joey wishes Martina were here with him, instead of at work, so he could clutch onto her hand. He needs some of that impenetrable strength of hers right now.

And he's in this miserable state when the downpour of rain becomes torrential, and the saying springs to his mind- _when it rains it pours._ So very fitting, because it's at this moment that Joey's own personal downpour increases in intensity, that another problem is added to his torrent of worries.

Because it's at this moment that Roxy returns for the fourth time.

* * *

He's ducked out for just a moment, wandering the corridors in search of a coffee, maybe something to eat while he waits for Grandad to wake up, and he walks right into her- literally.

'Oh, sorry,' he murmurs, taking a step back, hoping the lady he's just barrelled into is all right, wasn't carrying anything that might've spilt when they collided, 'I wasn't lookin' where I was- _Roxy!'_

'Hello, Joey,' her voice is the same as it always was, low and whispery. It brings back an avalanche of memories, all the love he once felt for her and all the hate that came with his separation from Oscar, all sloshing around together in his brain.

'Greetings,' he tries to act casual, to still the raging hurricane in his head.

'Greetings yourself.' She shuffles her foot- something he vividly remembers Oscar doing- he picked it up from her. Joey's hit with a wave of knee-trembling nostalgia as memories of the kid come flooding back, but he hangs onto his cool, eyeing Roxy up and down as if she's a mere insignificant acquaintance.

'So…how are you?'

She shrugs. 'Can't complain.'

'And…' he can't resist it, the pull's too strong, 'Oscar?'

'Oh, yeah, fine. Settled into London really well, yeah.'

Joey forces his hands to stay still at his sides, to not curl into fists. It's as if the stress she places on the word _well_ is deliberately to torment him, to rub it in that his son is thriving without him.

'What are you doin' back here, then?'

'Alberto's havin' plastic surgery. Gettin' his eyes done- came 'ere because the surgeon's a mate o' his and can give him a discount.'

Everything about that sentence makes Joey want to vomit. _Of course_ he'd be the sort of sleazy git that'd want plastic surgery. Joey's only seen him once- during the court case, but he's seen and heard enough to know what Alberto's like.

'So what are you doin' 'ere? In the hospital?'

'Me Grandad's 'ad a fall.'

'Oh.' Roxy rolls her eyes. 'Another _crisis_. I might've known. Same old Joey.'

_Snide little cow when it comes to family matters. Same old Roxy._

'Yeah, anyway,' Joey doesn't want to be here anymore, doesn't want to be having this conversation, because it's horrible and awkward to have to endure, 'I'd best be goin'- I'm just waiting for one of me brothers to take over watchin' Grandad, and for me wife to come and get me so I can go home.'

Roxy's eyebrows slant.

'_Wife? _Really, Joey? If you're gonna come up with a lie to make me jealous, you're gonna have to do better than that.'

She turns and walks off in the other direction, and Joey stares after her, blood boiling.

* * *

Martina comes by the hospital after work, and they go and say a goodbye to Grandad before heading back to Kelsall Street for dinner.

'Maxine,' Grandad says. He never _has_ gotten her name right.

She smiles at him. Of all Joey's family, Grandad is undoubtedly Martina's favourite. Some days, when they go to visit and she gets roped into taking his tray, she'll disappear for half an hour or more, missing the meal, and he'll go round in search of her to find the two of them chatting away like old friends. He doesn't know why, but she has more patience for him than the others, can sit and listen to his stories without passing judgement. And, though there are occasionally odd senile comments about the size of her chest (oh, how Joey regrets that time, years ago, when he admitted to Grandad he'd looked down her blouse while making a claim) and _I thought you were Shifty's one, _the old man likes her, too. Possibly it's because Martina tells him things, doesn't patronise him like Joey and the others tend to do without realising.

He reaches a shaking hand out from the blankets and she takes it. 'How're you doin', Grandad?'

'I don't know why I'm still 'ere. There's nothin' wrong with me a good dinner wouldn't put right. 'ave you seen the rubbish they serve me 'ere? It's all full of chemicals. Everyone fills everything with chemicals nowadays.'

Martina just shakes her head fondly, listening as he rambles on. And Joey, standing a few feet away from the bed, watches the two of them and feels himself ache right through his bones with love for them both.

A thought comes. It's one he's had before, but it rings true now, about Roxy and Martina, about how different they are. Roxy couldn't stand to be anywhere near his family, went out of her way to avoid them, and have Joey avoid them as much as possible, out of some sick, twisted form of jealousy. Martina, for all her comments about the 'thieving, scheming Boswells' lets Joey be there for them the instant he's needed, even pushes him, sometimes, when he's reluctant, comes with him if necessary. She interacts with them, knows how important they are to him and hence tries to be civil even with the members who especially annoy her, will be on hand at the drop of a hat if something goes wrong.

He remembers Roxy's words. _Oh, another crisis._ He looks at Martina now, sitting beside Grandad and talking with him, having allowed herself to be uprooted from her home and her normal routine to help out, to be there, both for Joey and for everyone else.

Something his Dad said when he and Roxy split comes back to him. _Roxy is to you what Lil is to me_. Well, he thinks, if that's so, then Martina is to him what _Nellie_ is to Freddie. Martina is infinitely better for him. He knows this the way he knows that one plus one equals two, that the Enterprise Allowance Scheme is the easiest Social Security initiative to take advantage of, that in the beginning God created the Heavens and the earth, that Billy will never really get over Julie, that the earth goes around the sun. Knows it because it's a fact.

He wants to forget about Roxy forever. He wants to forget seeing her today. He wants to concentrate on his wife, his family, on Grandad- he's got a lot to worry about there, for though the old man evaded fatality this time, Joey's beginning to realise he hasn't got a lot of time left- but Roxy having turned up has triggered thoughts of Oscar, and Oscar's a lot harder to put out of his head. Because, while Joey may be over Roxy, he's _not_ over Oscar.

* * *

Joey thinks about it all in the car on the way home. He's silent the entire drive, is silent through most of the dinner, despite having his Mam, Billy, Martina and Jack, who's popped over the road for his meal, all there to talk to. Why has his ex-wife decided to rear her head now, of all times? He's got enough on his plate what with poor Grandad, without having to contend with reminders of what Roxy did to him, with Oscar, who's out there somewhere living his life without him.

He's so preoccupied that he doesn't even look at what he's eating, just spears random lumps and pushes them between his teeth. So when he tastes chicken he nearly chokes in shock.

Joey frantically spits it out and looks up to see Billy happily ploughing through his vegetarian dish.

'_Billy!_' he protests, flabbergasted. 'Why didn't anyone warn me he'd swapped the plates around?'

Martina and Jack look at each other.

'We would have expected you ter notice, dear,' Martina says.

'Yeah- and then when you didn't, we 'ad too much fun seein' how long it'd take you to figure it out,' Jack adds.

'Don't torment our Joey,' Nellie reprimands, 'he's just worried about Grandad- well, we're _all_ worried about Grandad!'

'I wasn't tormenting him,' Billy says, 'I just thought Joey's food looked better.'

'And we're just dealin' with our worries about Grandad in a different way,' Jack says, and, at Nellie's stern look, adds, 'with humour. It helps a lot, humour.'

Joey can't argue with that- he's found this to be true on many occasions. 'Mam, look, it's okay, it's no sweat about the food. I just won't eat the meat, that's all- and Billy, you can give me some o' the mushrooms back.'

Billy reluctantly puts _one_ back on Joey's plate and the meal goes along relatively smoothly from then on. And Joey tries to join in with their conversations, and tries to stop Billy jumping to his feet, and acts like he normally does, but he's still in a fog.

* * *

He stayed in here for nearly two years after leaving Roxy, but still, to Joey, this room feels more like Aveline's than his. After all this time it still smells like her, the walls still have that tacky leopard print paper (Martina had actually scoffed out loud when she'd first seen it), the bed still has those same plush pink-and-green pillowcases, which don't go with the black silk sheets he'd brought with him when he'd returned home. And somehow it feels like he's only just left Roxy all over again, like he's gone back in time to when the divorce was a fresh wound, when the loss of Oscar was new and dripping with blood. And, he supposes, it's just like that- he's having to come to terms with the loss anew, and he's got a family crisis on top to boot. He needs to talk about it- at least about one of his problems.

Joey and Martina are lying back-to-back, feet entangled, her elbow digging quite uncomfortably into his side- not that Joey could sleep even if he was in a more comfy position. He sighs, shuffles his shoulders a bit, ignoring the annoyed little noise Martina makes as she has to readjust herself accordingly, sighs again, shuffles again, sighs.

'You've got somethin' on yer mind,' Martina says through the darkness. Not that it took much perception to work that out when he's thrashing the way he is.

'Well, of course I have,' he focuses on the problem she knows about, 'just thinkin' o' Grandad in there…I mean, I know this time it was a lucky scrape-through…but how many more times before it isn't? He's not exactly _young_, is he?'

'That's puttin' it mildly,' Martina snorts.

'What I mean to say is…I'm startin' to realise…he really might not have long left, now- the next time I get called up about Grandad it might be because he's…' he trails off, but they both know how the sentence would have ended.

He feels Martina shift into a more comfortable position, her shoulders leaving his.

'It 'appens.'

Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact. Joey isn't happy with her response- he'd really been wheedling for some empathy, some comfort.

'That's not what I wanted to hear.'

Martina shifts again, this time angling herself right away from him.

'I don't believe in tellin' people what they want ter hear.'

Martina's entire persona summed up in one sentence. No, she most definitely does not. Martina's always preferred the brutal truth, no matter how much distress it causes. It's how she does things at work, and it carries over into her home life, too. Normally Joey prefers it, likes the way she's so down-to-earth, but tonight it's doing nothing for him. Once in a while (and this is one of those onces in one of those whiles) he wants to hear the soothing platitudes, hear that Grandad will be around forever and ever, even though he knows that can't be so, just wants to hear _something_ positive after so much negativity.

'Even so, a few warm words wouldn't have gone astray here,' he mutters, 'in case you didn't notice, I'm upset.' He moves right across to the other side of the bed, so he's not touching her at all, attempts to take most of the blankets with him.

Martina huffs. 'Stop bein' such a _child_.' She tugs the blankets back hard enough that they almost come off Joey completely.

He lies there, cold, arms folded, staring grumpily into the blackness. It's not fair. She doesn't understand. Grandad means so much to him- and then there's the Roxy/Oscar thing to have to contend with as well- not that he's told her about that, but still. When your ex-wife comes back, her presence tormenting you by reminding you about your almost son, a few nice words and a comforting cuddle from your loving current wife about your injured grandfather would be most appreciated.

Joey watches the patch of light on the wall, where the moon's getting in through the window, counting leopard spots and not sleeping.

* * *

They're not really speaking the next morning. Joey awakens, after a few snatches of shuteye, to find Martina's already left the room. He frowns and mutters as he dresses, still incredibly miffed about the whole situation, about her reaction.

She's halfway through her breakfast when Joey comes downstairs, keeping her eyes determinedly on her bowl and not looking up as he takes his seat beside her.

'Have you two 'ad a tiff?' Billy asks from across the table, mouth stuffed with toast.

'No,' they growl as one.

' 'Cause you look like you 'ave,' Billy ploughs on relentlessly, 'see, when I was married to Julie this sort of thing would happen- some days she just wouldn't talk to-'

'Bill-y!' Joey chants, giving his younger brother a warning look. Nellie plonks a plate down in front of him, eyes the three of them meaningfully.

'What time are you going in to Grandad today, love?'

Joey looks up, glad of the change of subject. 'Jack's takin' the first shift, so about eleven.'

'Oh, that's good then, you'll be able to take Grandad's…' Nellie falters as she realises. Grandad's in hospital. No-one'll be taking the tray.

'Well, I'm off to work,' Martina puts her bowl and cup in the sink, pulls on her coat, gives a smile to Nellie and a scowl to Joey in parting. In an instant, Billy's on his feet, shoving the remains of his breakfast into his mouth so he acquires the appearance of a hamster.

' 'ang on,' he spits through the great quantities of food, 'I'll drive yer. I wanna sell me sandwiches down there today.'

Joey shoots her an apologetic look, knowing she hates riding in Billy's van as much as the next person, but she ignores him, walks out without a glance back.

Nellie starts to clear plates with a clatter. 'All this rowin', Joey. You want to watch yourself, or you could be heading for another divorce.'

She's exaggerating as usual.

'We're not _rowing_, Mam,' Joey protests.

'The looks you were giving each other could have deflowered a cemetery! We don't need any fighting in this house, Joey- there's enough shouting when Julie comes by to drop Francesca off with Billy.'

'Mam, look, we're not rowin', and we're not gonna start shoutin' at each other, okay? We're both just under a lot o' stress, that's all,' Joey says, not entirely untruthfully, 'I'll sort it out, Mam. I'll sort it out.'

He gets up, leaving his breakfast mostly untouched, goes into the parlour and dials the DSS.

Martina doesn't pick up. She must not have gotten there yet. Joey sighs and puts the receiver down. Ah, well. He'll make it up to her later. Like he said, he was just so stressed last night, what with Grandad, and he had just bumped into Roxy, and anything like that is bound to take its toll on you. Now it's the morning, and the thoughts about his ex-wife are fading away like bad dreams. He ran into her once- just a freak occurrence, because she happened to be down here with her Latin fancy-man- she'll be gone again soon enough, and now he can forget all about having seen her, devote all his energy to Grandad's near-disaster. He'll put all the Roxy thoughts, all the Oscar thoughts away and get on with it.

Joey strides out to his Jag, calmed.

And nearly has a heart attack when he sees Roxy leaning against it.

* * *

'What do _you_ want?' he sounds harsh- he sounds like Martina. It's a reasonable question, though. What _does_ she want?

'I felt bad about…how we left things between us,' she says, looking at the ground. 'I just wanted to see how you are.'

'Well, I'm fine,' he says, though he isn't.

Roxy cocks her head to one side. 'Let's go for a walk, eh, Joey?'

'Er- I've got places to be…' he begins feebly. He doesn't want to be alone with Roxy, not just now. Every syllable she utters brings back painful memories of the court case, of her telling him he had no right to see Oscar, telling him flat out she was having an affair. He doesn't want all that. He wants to forget about it all, forever, move on and never think backwards again.

But an achingly desperate part of him wants to ask how Oscar is. He may be able to stop loving Roxy, but he'll never be able to stop loving that child. And so, when she looks at him, he finds himself nodding, striding beside her down the street and around the corner.

'You've got the world on your face, Joey,' she says as they walk.

And what reason has he got not to, he thinks. The world's suffocating him. He and Martina are fighting, Grandad's lying in hospital with a broken leg and now Roxy's added an extra weight to his load.

'Thinkin' about your Grandad, are you? You never could ignore a _crisis_.'

Joey's proud of his self-control; he doesn't rise to the bait. His family crises are what broke up their marriage in the first place- Roxy has never understood what they mean to him, and he doesn't want to hear her complaints about them- ever again.

'They said he's gonna be fine in a while,' he says off-handedly, 'they're just keepin' him in for a few tests, and to make sure everythin's healin' the way it should be before they send 'im home.'

'And the whole family will be cluckin' around him, seein' to his every need, I suppose.'

Joey grits his teeth. 'Why did you wanna talk to me, Roxy, if you're just gonna go on about me family again?'

Roxy stops, turns to face him. Joey avoids looking her in the eyes- although he feels nothing for her now, they were always the part of her that melted him and made him turn into her slave.

'I wanted to say I'm sorry,' Roxy says, and he's caught completely off-guard. Roxy never says she's sorry- or she never means it at any rate. 'I'm sorry for how we left things. Maybe I did overreact.'

'Well,' Joey says awkwardly, 'what's done is done, isn't it? And, I mean, it worked out okay- you've got Alberto, I've got my wife…'

He sees her roll her eyes, mutter something that sounds like _oh yeah, this supposed wife you have_, but he says nothing. If she doesn't believe him, that's her problem.

'And anyway,' Joey intends to go on, but he trails off. 'Oscar…'

The name comes from his mouth without any warning, a Freudian slip he can't retract.

'D'you want to see Oscar?'

The sentence is so sudden, so unexpected that Joey nearly topples right over. He rights himself against a wall.

'What d'you mean, see 'im?'

'What d'you think I mean? _See him_, see him, that's what.'

'But-' Joey can't process things in his brain. All he's got inside his head is a big picture of Oscar's face projected as if onto a screen. 'You said…you said I couldn't…why now?'

'Like I said- maybe I was overreactin'. Maybe I should've thought differently about everythin'- about you…'

Joey doesn't like where this is going. 'What are you sayin', Roxy? It's a bit late for wantin' us back, if that's what you're sayin'. I told you, I remarried, I've got a…'

'There you go again, twistin' me words,' Roxy says, even though Joey's sure he's not. 'Who said anythin' about us?'

Who said anything, indeed. It was only Roxy who turned up in the first place, only Roxy who started talking about _the way they left things_. Joey doesn't want to think about the way they left things. He wants to just…_leave_ things. The only reason he hasn't turned around and walked off is because she's mentioned Oscar. Even now, she knows exactly what buttons to push to keep him rooted to the spot.

'Look,' she says, 'I was just talkin' about Oscar, that's all. D'you want to see him or not?'

And that's just it. He does. He really, really does.

Roxy dictates the address of the place they're staying at.

'Come by on Wednesday and we'll talk.'

Joey swallows.

* * *

Joey stays with Grandad for the rest of the day, all day. His grandfather's doing well, getting right back to his old self, shouting at the nurses about the smallest things, breaking away from his restraints and trying to walk about, cast and all, and having to be pinned to his bed by the ward sisters. They don't want to keep him here much longer, they've told him- he's making life very difficult for them, and they're getting to the point where they'll ask his family to take care of him until the time comes to take his cast off. Joey tries to keep his thoughts on the old man and the old man only. He's in too much of a mess to want to think about this morning. Roxy and Oscar, Oscar and Roxy…his son, the possibility of seeing his son…it's all too much. It's all too confusing.

_Come by on Wednesday and we'll talk_.

What are they supposed to be talking about? What does she want from him? Does she really mean it- would she let Joey have Oscar in his life?

He just doesn't trust her. He doesn't trust Roxy anymore, not since she ran off with Alberto, not since she destroyed his life by forbidding him contact with her lad. There's probably some sort of favour involved.

And whatever happens, Joey's not so sure he'll come out unscathed.

* * *

Martina's found her own way back, is in the parlour when Joey gets in, sipping coffee and ignoring the telly. The clanking in the kitchen indicates Nellie's starting dinner, and he can hear Billy stomping around upstairs.

Joey sits down beside Martina, leans in cautiously and kisses her.

'Gotten over yer temper tantrum, 'ave you?' she asks sternly.

Joey sighs. 'I was stressed, that's all.'

'We all get stressed, love. I 'ave to go through it nearly every day. Doesn't mean you need to start sulkin' like a five-year-old.'

'I'm sorry, sweetheart,' he murmurs, kissing her again, snuggling close to her on the sofa. He wants to tell her about Roxy- perhaps then she'll understand. Maybe she'll give him advice on what to do- he wants to go, wants to believe it's true, that he can see Oscar, but at the same time, he doesn't know if it's such a good idea. Martina's sensible. She'll know what to do.

'You've noticed I've 'ad somethin' on me mind…' he begins.

'Somethin' other than Grandad.' It's not a question. Martina's more perceptive than he gives her credit for- and really, that's disgraceful of him, because she's a DHSS lady born and bred, and he should know by now that she _knows_ things. She tells him frequently that she 'knows everything.' He's beginning to think it's not a hyperbole at all.

'I was thinkin' about Oscar.' He rarely talks about this part of his life with her. The silence is expected.

'Oh.' She shifts beside him, and he feels her curl closer towards him, reassuring him with her presence. Her arms slide around his chest, and he wraps his hand around her fingers.

'And?' Martina's form of comforting isn't sweet words or false promises of 'everything's going to be okay, you're always in the right because you're the one that's upset.' She's matter-of-fact, straight to the point, only tells him something will be all right if it actually is. But after so many lies from Roxy, he likes that.

'Well,' Joey pauses, thinking. 'I bumped into Roxy yesterday.'

'Oh,' she says yet again, but it's a different sound. Her arm tightens around him, at once both protective and possessive. 'No _wonder _you were so worked up last night.'

'Yeah,' he admits, because to say anything else would be pointless. 'That's right.'

Martina's quiet, and Joey realises she's expecting him to go on.

'What would you do,' he asks her, clutching onto her hands, 'if Shifty turned up again? What would you say to 'im?

Martina purses her lips and Joey wonders if this was, perhaps, the wrong approach. Her fingers clench around his, and then she relaxes.

'I don't know,' she says.

'You'd be angry, wouldn't you?'

'S'pose I would, yeah.' _She supposes_. Her body language back then indicates there's no _supposing_ about it. ' You're a bit worked up, love, that's all. Just forget about it now.'

'I can't.'

Martina sighs.

'Thing is, she asked me if I wanted to see Oscar again…said to meet her on Wednesday.'

He can't read the expression on Martina's face, and for a moment he worries. Martina barely trusts even the people she trusts, if that makes sense, and he doesn't want her to think there's anything in it. He hastens to make himself plainer.

'And I just don't know if I should, you see. I mean, I don't know if she means it- Roxy often 'as ulterior motives, and I don't know if I should let meself believe her…'

'Mhmm,' she murmurs, as if confirming something to herself.

'D'you think I should go?' He sounds whiny, like a little kid, and he hates himself for being this way. He's the one making other people's decisions, he shouldn't need someone else to make his for him. But his mind is so warped as far as Roxy's concerned, he feels he needs an outside opinion.

'It's not that I want to see _her_- I'm still angry with her, Martina, I don't think I could bring meself to ever be her friend, even, but…it's just…Oscar…'

'You miss him.' Again, not a question.

'I do, yeah.' Again, no point in protesting otherwise.

'I sometimes miss people too,' she says, and he doesn't know whether she means her brother or Shifty or someone he's never even heard about, but it doesn't matter, because it's her aloof way of saying she understands. She's not angry. Joey offers up a prayer of thanks for having married someone so strong, so sensible.

'Go, then,' Martina says after a moment of deliberation, 'just be on yer guard, Joey. Don't expect too much.'

Joey turns, looks at her.

'I've seen this sort o' thing so many times at work,' she says. 'People say anythin' if they think it'll get them what they want. Don't….don't let 'er use you, Joey. If you think that's gonna 'appen, you leave straight away.'

She's right, Joey knows she's right. Roxy is trying to use him, just like she always did when they were married, and he should just stay away from her, but still, the slimmest possibility of seeing the boy makes him falter.

'And don't go runnin' off with 'er,' Martina warns, holding up one finger, 'or I'll 'unt you down and do all sorts o' horrible things ter you.' She's jesting a little, trying to lighten the mood, and Joey appreciates it. He manages a laugh, tightens his arms around her and kisses her, a long, slow kiss, pouring all his gratitude for her presence into it.

* * *

'Watch where you're goin'!'

Joey and Adrian expertly manoeuvre the wheelchair down the pavement, swinging it round in a wide arc and pushing it towards where Joey's Jag lies waiting.

'Keep it steady! Keep it steady!' Grandad snaps. 'Give over, you're gonna mek it go into the wall!'

His leg's carefully bandaged and propped up, resting, for extra comfort, on a cushion the Boswell siblings have brought from home, and they're all surrounding him, his own private little parade to get him safely from the hospital back to his house.

Officially speaking, Grandad shouldn't have been let out yet- it's only been a week, but his grumbling has upset the staff, and after a lot of hassle and arguing between Nellie and the ward sister, he was delivered to the Boswells with instructions on how to attend to him, when to bring him back for his check-ups and scans and when to eventually bring him to have his cast taken off.

Grandad, although he's still being snippy about the slightest thing, is very clearly, very obviously pleased about his release- far _too_ pleased, for he knows full well just what sort of treatment he'll get, knows he'll be fussed over by every member of the family, and, Joey thinks as he looks down at him, he's going to use this to his advantage. He's already requested a special dinner from Nellie- two lamb chops (no more bloody chickens) vegetables but no broccoli and pudding with brandy sauce, and ice cream on the side, not on top for fear it might make the pudding cold, and he wants it outside, not in the house (that hospital was dead stuffy) and he wants blankets around him, because the street is bound to be cold.

Joey smiles at his long list of demands as Adrian opens the door of the car, as he and Jack gently pack their grandfather into the back seat. Despite the pain he's probably still in, all the extra attention means he's going to be having the time of his life.

He's going to be fine. Joey allows himself to stop worrying so much about his Grandad, to push the thoughts about his mortality to one side and focus on the currently more pressing problem. He's meeting with Roxy in three hours, and Oscar will be there. His stomach's turning and churning and rocking. What's he going to say to his son- he hasn't seen him for three years- will Oscar still like him, will he forgive him for not calling and not writing? What'll Martina say if Oscar comes back into his life- if he gets, _finally_ to have visits? Oscar's a likeable kid, Joey doesn't know a soul who'd find him difficult, but he's Roxy's son, and that in itself might be reason enough for there to be some sort of resentment.

He worries and frets, then worries and frets some more, barely eats his lunch, and nearly crashes his Jag because he's not looking on the road. There are so many things worrying him about this meeting.

As it turns out, his worries about how Oscar will react are unfounded, because Oscar doesn't react at all.

As it turns out, Oscar isn't even there.

* * *

Joey kicks himself. Roxy's done it again. She's pushed him back under her thumb and squashed him with it. And they're not even married anymore! Oh, he needs help. He runs upstairs the instant he gets home, pushes past his Mam and Aveline, who are chatting in the parlour and look up with concern as he goes by.

Joey pulls the door of his room shut behind him, the relief of being safely away from everyone immense and welcome. He sighs, long and loud, resting his head back against the door.

_What a mess._ This whole afternoon has been a disaster. And he's angry about it.

'Penny for them.'

The voice cuts into Joey's deep thought, and he blinks, snapping out of it. He turns.

Martina's sitting cross-legged, a pile of clothes in her lap, mending a button on one of her cardigans. She smirks wryly at him. 'Or, rather, I _would_ give yer a penny, but you wouldn't need it, would you? People who can afford leather gear and expensive cars, and are thinkin' o' paintin' said expensive cars on top o' that, can surely be spared a coin or two.'

A few of Joey's worries instantly dissipate as her words hit him- something about Martina's teasing always comforts him. He feels just cheered enough to take up his sword, to join the verbal battle.

'Ah, but sweetheart, wouldn't my brilliant thoughts be worth the money?'

Martina shakes her head. 'You dish out enough thoughts as it is. I'm gettin' more than me fair share o' profound Boswell wisdom without 'avin' ter subscribe to it and pay as well.' She gives him a fairly _evil_ smile, and a chuckle vibrates through Joey's throat. It's a wonderful feeling, a wonderful sound, it counteracts all the pain and the contracting of his insides that have been plaguing him for the past few days.

He climbs onto the bed, pulls her close to him, rests his chin on her shoulder. Despite the fact that being with Martina means he has to be constantly on his toes, always searching for a way to go one up on whatever she says, constantly teasing and playing games, there's still something very comforting about that smile, that voice, the warmth and solidity of her when he holds her in his arms. It gives Joey the sense of being home, of having somewhere safe to run to when it all gets too much.

'Tomorrow, we'll go home,' he whispers into her hair. 'Okay?'

She curls her lip. 'Does this mean the family crisis is over, then?'

Well, Grandad's back safe and sound next door, albeit in a cast and confined to a wheelchair. He'll whinge and whine and grumble, especially when it's only Billy waiting on him, pushing him round, attending to his beck and call, but he'll be fine. He's back on form, demanding his pudding and complaining about how many bloody chickens Nellie cooks and telling the neighbours to piss off. Back to the good old Grandad they know and love. And here's hoping he'll last another huge handful of years at least. And Joey wants to go home, back to Gateacre, back to their house, which holds no memories of Roxy, which is theirs alone. The sooner they go, the better.

'Indeed it does, sweetheart,' he nuzzles against her neck, gifting her with little kisses. 'Indeed it does.'

'And what about Oscar? What 'appened?'

Joey pulls back. The question was inevitable, but he'd been trying to distract himself.

He turns away from her, staring at Aveline's ugly wallpaper as he tries to think of a way to put it.

'You were right,' normally he doesn't like saying this, not to Martina, not when their entire marriage is founded on a battle of wits, aimed at claiming the other is wrong about everything, but in this case, it's warranted, 'you were right about it all. It was just a stupid game. He wasn't there, he wasn't there, he just _wasn't there_, Martina, and you were right when you said she wanted somethin'- she did, and…'

He's babbling, just stringing the thoughts together one after the other, talking quicker and quicker and hoping Martina will be able to keep up.

'Joey,' she says calmly, cutting into his tangled ramble, 'you're gettin' hysterical, love. Slow down. What 'appened? What did she do?'

'She asked me to look at her tax return, 'cause she's never been good at those, but I always was, bein'…'

'A Boswell?' He's not looking directly at her, but he can picture the raised eyebrow.

'A Boswell, yeah,' he laughs uneasily, 'but then I asked her where Oscar was, if he was gonna be along any time soon, and she wouldn't answer me…I should've _known_, she just wanted me for a favour, just because I was a poor sap who she used to know, who she could get to do things for her…' he's getting riled up about this now, but he just can't believe how imbecilic he's been.

Martina waits until he's done ranting, combing through his hair with her hands while he gets it all out.

'I did warn you, luv. I told you she was probably after something.'

'Don't gloat,' he grumbles.

'I'm not. I'm just _sayin'._ She knows that boy is yer weak spot, and if she makes you think you have a hope o' gettin' 'im back, she can own you fer life.'

'He's not my only weak spot,' Joey says, reaching his head up to kiss Martina. She gives him a warning smile.

'You're tryin' ter avoid the subject. You need to do somethin' about this once and fer all.'

'D'you think I should confront her about it? Tell her to stop approachin' me?'

Martina doesn't reply, but her face is enough of an answer. Yes. He should. But how can he do that? Roxy can crush his strength of mind so easily, can make him think he has a glimmer of hope- if only Martina could be there, like she is now, to be the voice of reason for him…

Joey clutches at her, taken with an idea.

'Help me.'

'What d'you mean?'

'Come with me when I confront her.'

'I don't do confrontations. Anyway, I'll be at work.'

'Couldn't you come in your lunch break? Or after work, or somethin'?'

'Probably- but I don't see why I should. You need to learn to deal with 'er on yer own, Joey.'

'But…' Joey protests. She raises an eyebrow, trying to make him stop, but he goes on anyway. 'I just can't deal with Roxy. I lose me resolve.'

Martina deliberates. 'You need to do it on yer _own_, Joey,' she repeats, but she doesn't sound so harsh this time. She might even be on the verge of caving.

'Couldn't you just wait there- somewhere nearby, come and give me a rescue if I need one?'

She sighs, slumps against him. 'Oh, all right.'

A weight's lifted from Joey. 'You are the most wonderful woman in the world, sweetheart- have I told you that before?'

Martina ignores the remark.

'Come on,' she kisses his forehead, 'we'd better go down ter dinner or yer Mam'll send Billy up to find us again.'

Joey laughs, remembering the embarrassment the last time they'd missed a meal, a few nights ago, the look on Billy's face when he'd barged into the room and realised _why_ they weren't turning up. He hastily gets to his feet, taking both of her hands and pulling her off the bed.

'Yeah, we don't want to traumatise him again, do we?'

She snorts, takes his arm and they head down together.

* * *

'When's me breakfast comin'?' Grandad demands the moment Joey steps onto the street. He's swaddled up in three different blankets, the strong aroma of perfume around him indicating one of them is a gift from Aveline.

'It'll be along, Grandad, it'll be along,' Joey mumbles, opening up the boot of his car and stacking his and Martina's bags into it.

'Oh- are you goin', then?'

'Yeah, well- you'll be all right now, won't you, son? Just need to take it easy for a few weeks, don't you?'

'I don't want to take it easy,' Grandad says. 'I want to go for a _walk_. Me brain's fed up o' lookin' at the same set of houses, only bein' allowed to think o' the same places.'

'I'll give Billy a yell,' Joey promises. 'he can come push you in your chair.'

'I don't want that!'

'Jack, then. He's only over the road.'

'I don't want to be pushed in me chair! I want to walk!'

Joey gives up. There's no pleasing him.

He goes back to loading up the car.

* * *

At four o'clock that afternoon, Joey takes a seat opposite Roxy in a bustling restaurant, unwilling to meet her in her own territory in case she somehow finds a way to trick him again.

He takes a breath. _Come on, son. Just get it over with. Ask what she wants. Ask about Oscar._

'Go on,' Roxy says. 'What is it?'

Joey blinks. He's not _ready_ to speak, yet. He feels like Billy.

'You were the one who phoned me up, beggin' to talk. So what is it you want to talk about?'

'You _know_ what.'

'Oh, don't play games, Joey!'

He laughs bitterly. As if_ she_ has a right to talk about _games_.

'What about this one _you're _playin', then? You asked me if I wanted to see Oscar, and then you handed me your tax return and expected me to do it for you!'

'I just asked if you'd _help_, that's all, just while you were there…'

'And just while Oscar _wasn't._ Tell me, Roxy, when you said I could see him, did you mean it at all? Or did you just wanna lure me in to help you out?'

'I just thought there was no harm in asking, that's all.'

'And why couldn't your _fancy man_ have helped you?'

'I _told you,_ he's havin' surgery. Besides, if I'd known you were gonna make such a fuss, I never would have asked you. This wasn't about that, anyway…'

'Then what was it about? I don't understand you, Roxy. What was the point? Is Oscar even down here with you?'

Roxy's silent. Joey's temper rises and rises.

'Well,' he says through his teeth, '_is he?_'

There's a long pause. Roxy looks at anything but Joey, and then speaks very softly. 'No.'

Joey can't speak.

'He's up in London with Alberto's family,' Roxy says, just as quietly.

'Then why? What was the point?' Joey's speaking slowly, trying not to let himself lose control. He's hurting, _aching_- she's opened up the deep wounds he's harboured for so long, that have never properly healed, and for what? Because she wants favours while her lover's indisposed. And she's turned to him, because she knows he's easy prey.

And he very nearly fell for it. He'd gone to see her, even though he'd been warned not to, even though, in his heart of hearts he'd realised he shouldn't have.

'It was just to _discuss things-_ you're the one who's makin' more out of this than it was, you're the one who can't let go…'

She's trying to turn it all back on him. Joey's getting towards fury now.

He slams his hand against the table.

'I should've _known_, I should've known! My wife warned me- I should've listened to her in the first place!'

'If she does exist, this wife o' yours,' Roxy says, the slant of her brow indicating she doesn't believe it. 'Or did you just make her up to get at me?'

Joey's palms sweat, his jaw twitching with anger and frustration he doesn't know how to control.

'Oh, I can assure you, our Joey's not _that_ good at lyin',' comes a cool, clear voice, and Joey's bowled over with an immense relief as Martina steps out from around a pillar, a predatory expression on her face, coming to a stop beside him and laying a hand on his shoulder. Her touch calms him, and he feels the muscles in his jaw relax.

'Believe me, if he made somethin' as ridiculous as _that_ up, you'd see right through him in an instant. I've seen 'im try.'

Joey sees Roxy give her the once-over, a hatefully disbelieving look on her face. She scoffs.

'How much is he payin' you, love?'

And she immediately shrinks down. Joey can only imagine the look Martina's giving her.

'I, er…' Roxy's intimidated, but she tries her utmost to hide it. 'I'm Roxy.'

'I know, yeah.' Martina's voice is malevolent, masquerading as friendly.

'We were just discussin'…'

'I _heard_,' Martina cuts in. 'I 'eard everythin'.'

Roxy does what she does best, clutches at a straw and tries to throw the conversation back onto whoever's opposing her. 'And what were you doing listening, then? Why are you here?'

'Er- shouldn't I be askin' _you_ that? From what I 'eard, you were livin' 'appily in London. So why are _you_ 'ere? Felt like entertainin' yerself torturin' my husband, did you?'

Roxy looks completely horrified at Martina's nerve. She shoots a look at Joey, and he shrugs, inwardly teeming with pride for the DHSS lady. She's amazing, she is. Cuts straight to the chase in a way Joey can't. And Roxy has no sway over her the way she does Joey. Martina won't take any of her nonsense.

'Will you tell her, Joey, that this conversation is between us, and…'

'You know, I think she's got a point there,' Joey says. 'You were just torturin' me, Roxy, and…'

'Oh, repeat what she says, just like you repeat what yer Mam says- she's probably perfect for you. You need a mother, don't you? Someone to run the show.'

Joey clenches his jaw, and Martina's hand tightens on his shoulder, a silent reminder to stay calm. Roxy's just saying what she knows will rile him up, and he needs to stop rising to it.

'What you don't,' Joey begins, but doesn't get further than that, because a hand taps his other shoulder.

'Excuse me, sir?' It's a waiter. 'Are you Joey Boswell?'

'Greetings!' He gives a curt nod. 'I am he.'

'There's a call for you at reception.'

Joey frowns. What an odd thing to happen, and now of all times! He looks from Roxy to Martina. His second wife smiles at him.

'Go and take it if you need to, love,' she says, sounding innocent and at the same time far from it. 'I'll 'old the fort 'ere.'

So Joey goes, walks through the building into the other chamber and toward reception. What's Martina going to do, alone with Roxy? What'll they both say? He imagines them both discussing him, wonders what she's going to say.

The man behind the counter at reception clears his throat, and Joey realises he's been standing there not saying anything.

'Er, I believe you have a telephone call for me,' he says, switching on the charm, or doing the best impression of it he can at the moment.

The man shakes his head slowly.

'Joey Boswell,' he clarifies.

The man shakes his head again. 'There's no phone call.'

'But- there must be. They said my name and everythin'…'

The bloke shrugs. 'Problem on the switchboard no doubt.' And he turns away, leaving Joey confused and a tad annoyed at the inconvenience. He walks back outside, grumbling to himself. He was in the middle of an important conversation when all this happened, and to not even have had to answer a call at all…

_Of all the ridiculous-_ Joey pauses mid-thought, gazing round the pillar at Martina and Roxy's table. They seem very deeply involved in their discussion, whatever it's about. Joey wonders if he should go over there, but a little voice in his head tells him to wait. He can't really see what's going on, not from distance, but even from all the way over here it's clear enough that Martina's got a firm grip on the situation, is doing some fairly vicious negotiating.

He waits and watches. Roxy gets to her feet, then seems to think better of it and sits down. More arguing. He can only just pick out their voices, and not individual words, but their tones speak for themselves. Roxy's getting shrill. Martina's voice remains calm and even, but at the same time low and laced with something dangerous.

They both look round, and seeing him there, Martina waves him over.

Roxy stands. 'I'm sorry, Joey.'

Joey's flabbergasted. She actually sounds like she means it. Or at least like she's being forced to say this.

'I shouldn't have brought Oscar up again, shouldn't have done that to you. I know you loved him. I should have left well alone.'

Joey is completely and utterly astounded. This isn't the Roxy he knows.

'You never would have let…' he says, ' I mean you never…would you?'

'No. I'm sorry.'

It hurts to hear the truth, but at least Joey knows for certain. At least it's over, at _last_. He nods at Roxy.

'Well, I suppose this is it then. Goodbye. For real, this time.'

'Yeah,' Joey says. 'Goodbye then.'

And Roxy walks toward the door. Joey watches her go, perhaps for the last time, and feels relief, pain and anger all at once.

Martina comes and stands beside him.

'Let go of it, Joey,' she whispers. And Joey exhales, watches the anger float away, and does what he should have done in the first place. He takes Martina's advice. He accepts she's right.

He nods, and she smiles at him.

'Thanks, sweetheart. For whatever you did.' He ponders. 'Of all the times to have to go answer the phone- and then it turned out they'd messed things up on the switchboard, you know- there wasn't even a call for me in the end!'

'Course there wasn't,' Martina doesn't sound half as surprised by his comment as he'd expected. 'I made it up ter get rid o' you. Told them to tell yer.'

Joey blinks. 'You did?'

She rolls her eyes at him. 'And I thought you were supposed ter be _clever_. Thought you'd 'ave cottoned on straight away.'

His mind really has been clouded by this whole incident. Well, no matter. It's over now.

'What exactly did you say to her?' Joey inquires, slipping her arm through his as they turn for the door.

Martina smirks. 'Oh, I just _reminded_ 'er of somethin'.'

'What?'

Her smirk increases in intensity. 'Just that you're _mine_, and if she knows what's good fer 'er she'll stop harrassin' yer.'

'I've said it before, and I'll say it again- you are a possessive woman.'

'I am, yeah. And it's just as well, isn't it? You'd never have been rid o' her on yer own.'

He looks down lovingly at her.

'Yeah,' he says, 'it is.'

* * *

As they leave, Joey's smothered with misery. He feels like a fool.

It's just as well he'd taken Martina with him today, otherwise he might have been deceived into following his ex-wife around forever, doing her dirty work. Having them both together, having Martina there to be the voice of reason, has helped him realise once and for all how Roxy's been playing him all these years. He needs Martina to ground him in reality, or else he'd always be running off after the kites that are his past failures, his unattainable goals, his hopeless hopes about Roxy and the kid- and they _were _hopeless hopes.

It doesn't make the hurt stop, though. He remembers once, a few years ago, Billy standing in the street, bawling his eyes out, crying that he wanted his child- that Julie was keeping Francesca from him. He'd held his brother, tried to comfort him, but he wasn't able to- had never been in that situation. He didn't know how to condole him, because he didn't know what it was like.

He knows now. He misses Oscar dreadfully, and though he knows Roxy would never, ever have actually let him see the boy, the idea that there might have been a chance, even a fake one, had drawn him to it like a moth to the flame, had been far too appealing. He thinks of Oscar's little face, of his eyes and his gap-toothed smile and it feels like a knife's been pushed through his stomach as he realises with total finality that his last hope of seeing his child has slipped from his grasp forever.

He walks silently by Martina's side, wallowing in this thought.

'Are you all right?' Martina stops him in the middle of the road, ignoring the angry shouts from the driver of the car who's had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting them.

He looks at her, at the concern etched around her eyes.

'Yeah,' his mouth twitches. 'I'm fine.'

Martina's hand slips into his, lacing their fingers.

'Why don't we go and get some quotes fer gettin' yer Jag resprayed?'

She's trying to cheer him up, he knows, and though he thinks it'll take a while for the scab to reseal over the Oscar wound, for him to be cheery again, he loves her all the more for making the effort.

So when he smiles at her, he means every inch of it. 'Oh, you know what? I don't think I want to paint me Jag red anymore.'

Martina's mouth opens in a half-gape, half-smile. 'After all that fuss you made, tryin' ter convince me it was worth it 'cause of Inspector Morse?'

'Oh, come _on_, Martina,' he teases, 'just because Inspector Morse has a red Jag doesn't mean I need one too!'

'Ah-_you_!' she splutters in disbelief, swinging at him with her handbag. He swoops in, grabbing her round the waist and kissing her for all he's worth.

'OI! OI! GET OFF THE ROAD YOU IDIOTS!' The driver who they've halted is getting very impatient now, beeping his horn like a maniac. 'TIME AND A PLACE! I'VE GOT PLACES TO BE, YOU KNOW!'

Somehow managing not to break their kiss, Martina swings them around so they're out of his way, but still not back on the pavement. The driver goes off, throwing a few choice swear words back at them as he accelerates away. They pull apart, hands clasped in each other's, and laugh.

And they laugh and they kiss and they laugh for a long time, before Martina's face grows serious. 'You'll be all right, Joey. I know you will.'

He touches her cheek, runs a hand through her hair. She hasn't curled it in years now, but he still instinctively kinks his hand up when it comes to the ends. 'I think I might be- if you'll help me get through it.'

'O' _course_ I'll help yer. I'll stick by yer.' She lays a hand on his shoulder. 'That's what Boswells do, or so I've been told.'

It's such a shock to hear Martina refer to herself as a Boswell that Joey starts laughing again, though his insides are shuddering with the impact of just how moved he is by the comment. She's right. She's one of the family, in every sense. So different to Roxy.

In fact, Joey thinks, he might go so far as to say she's the perfect _antidote_ to Roxy.

'You know somethin'? I _really_ love you,' he announces.

They kiss again, a violently passionate affair, and nearly get run over by a car coming in the opposite direction. They manage to stumble onto the pavement this time, listening to the driver's insults fading into the distance.

And though Joey wouldn't call himself happy right now, not after all the Roxy-Oscar stuff, he knows there isn't anywhere he'd rather be than on the side of the road with Martina, enraging motorists at random.

That's true love, that is. And he's glad to have it. It helps, it really does.

* * *

**Yeah, well. Strange chapter is strange. Only two to go now.**

**Next chapter:** _She doesn't know how she's wound up with a husband who fancies himself the Godfather and a daughter who fancies herself not just the Godfather but the entire mafia combined, but Martina knows for certain she wouldn't exchange them for anything._


	7. I thought I told you: 1997-2003

Bit** of a light-hearted chapter, for the most part, in contrast to all the angst. Just snapshots of Joey and Martina being parents. This one follows a slightly different format- it spans a few years and will switch points of view quite frequently.**

**The story of Joey's first word is taken directly from 'Mrs. Boswell's book of Bread.' I didn't make it up.**

**This is also as far forward as I'm going in the timeline. I've got two very short interludes coming up, one from around this time period and one from much earlier, and then the finale, which will (finally) show how they got together and close the whole thing.**

* * *

**I thought I told you**

**1997-2003**

_Martina doesn't know how she's wound up with a husband who fancies himself the Godfather and a daughter who fancies herself not just the Godfather but the entire mafia combined, but she knows for certain that she wouldn't exchange them for anything._

_~X~X_

Annabelle Boswell is her father's daughter, all right.

This much becomes painfully obvious when she's merely hours old, barely awake and barely able to move.

Joey's sitting on the windowsill beside Martina's hospital bed, playing with a pound note he found in his pocket while she marvels at the sleepy little thing in her arms, at the fact that this somehow _belongs_ to her, and wonders how she could ever have not wanted this.

Annabelle's been crying on and off, but though Martina hasn't successfully worked out how to get her to sleep, she's been quiet for the last little while, squinting around and yawning.

'Here,' Joey hops off the sill, comes to sit on the bed beside them. 'Aveline was tellin' me that if you do this..' he holds his finger against Belle's fist, and she curls her miniature digits around it. Joey's face lights up for about the hundredth time.

'I thought it was common knowledge, that.'

Joey smiles broadly. 'Yeah, but _Belle's_ doin' it. And she's _ours_.'

This doesn't make much sense, nor is it the most coherent sentiment Joey's ever come out with, but Martina knows how he feels.

It's sweet, watching him, his exuberance and enthusiasm. He's more excited than a three-year-old boy; the sun's just shining out of him. Not that Martina's any less happy herself. She feels completely light and airy, and internally she's reacting just as Joey is- but emotional displays are more his department. Martina just sits there, basking in the feeling, quietly and calmly awed.

Joey leans in carefully, reaching forward to take Martina's face in his hand and kiss her.

And about halfway to her mouth he stops, his brow furrowing.

'What is it?'

Joey leans back, and Martina gets to see exactly what's made him start.

Belle's no longer holding Joey's finger.

Instead, she's somehow gotten the pound note out of his hand and is crushing it in her tiny fist.

Joey's astounded. Martina laughs about it for ages.

'Already snatchin' money, and she's not even a day old! Out and out _Boswell_, this one!' She shakes her head, looking down at her daughter fondly. 'Give me strength!'

* * *

The thing that surprises Joey most about Belle is the fact that she has red hair. At first, when the auburn locks start to develop, he thinks there must be some sort of mistake, panics that the child isn't his. Martina listens to his panic for about five seconds, rolls her eyes and tells him to calm down. She shows him photographs of her brother, pointing out in each one the colour that almost exactly matches Annabelle's, reminds him that her maiden name was McKenna.

'Besides,' she adds, lightly touching Annabelle's nose, 'with a conk like _that_, she's _got_ ter be yours.'

Now she mentions it, Belle does have his nose- but he resents the insinuation that it's in any way big. She's provided him with plenty of ammunition for revenge, though, and he immediately makes use of it.

'So,' he begins, a new tease beginning to form in his mind, 'you're Scottish, are you, sweetheart?'

'Well not _me, _obviously! But somewhere down the line _someone_ must've been, mustn't they?' She sees the look on his face, seems to read his mind, know what he's planning to say.

'But that was _a long time ago, Mister _Boswell! At _least_ five generations!'

Joey ignores the comment, because it's too good an opportunity to pass up, and for several days afterward, he speaks to Martina in a Scottish accent, until she hits him and tells him so sternly to stop doing it that he daren't continue the jape.

'Can't you do something about that hair?' Nellie asks Joey irrationally when she first sees it. 'I don't like it. It reminds me of Lilo Lil.'

And so Joey takes to affectionately calling his daughter 'Lilo Belle', until Martina hits him and tells him to stop doing _that_ and all.

* * *

'D'you think,' Joey says one day, 'that now we've got a baby we can get a proper family allowance from the DSS?'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'Remember who you're talkin' to, Joey!'

It's meant as a warning, he knows, but he interprets it differently when he replies to her.

'Ah, yes, of course!' he smacks himself in the head, 'what was I thinkin', sweetheart? Why, _you_ can pull strings and get us all _sorts_ o' benefits for Belle!'

'She doesn't need benefits. She'll 'ave us providin' for 'er.'

'_But_ she might do. One day.'

Martina hurls one of Annabelle's toys at him.

* * *

Belle's first word, according to her father, is 'cash.'

Martina doesn't believe him.

'_My _first word was 'greetings!'' Joey insists. Martina doesn't believe this either.

'Oh, it's true, you know,' Nellie informs her one day, as they're sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. She invites her and Joey round for tea quite frequently, especially now since she's got a new grandchild to see. Martina's holding Belle in her lap as they chat, and her daughter is contentedly making nonsense sounds to herself and chewing on what used to be Martina's favourite necklace, before Annabelle claimed it as her own.

'Or at least, according to his father it is. He'd never leave Joey _alone_ when that one was born- was in the nursery with him so often it's a wonder that baby ever slept at all! Well, anyway, he came running down one night (he'd been drinking, I could tell because he had that _glazed_ look, you know how they always get when there's ale in the picture), _hollering_ at me that Joey had spoken.'

'Mhmm,' Martina says.

'Well, I knew he wasn't have going to have said something predictable, because being predictable isn't Joey's style…'

Martina begs to differ here. Predictable is _precisely_ Joey's style, in her opinion. She nearly always knows exactly what he's thinking, and most of the time it's to do with money, schemes, his Jag or the family. But she wants to hear how this story ends, so she doesn't interrupt.

'But I didn't expect his Dad to come out claiming he'd said 'greetings.' It was probably just noises, but then again, Joey does like to surprise people…'

Martina's not convinced. 'D'you think the ale might've 'ad somethin' ter do with it?'

'But then,' Joey, who's been silent for the rendition of the story, now decides he wants his input, 'why is it that I _still_ say 'greetings' even now?'

'Because you're obnoxious,' Martina says. 'That's why.'

Joey just laughs, rolling a 10p coin between his fingers. 'In a loveable sort of way.'

He notices Belle's stopped what she's doing, is watching him with intense fascination, and he spins the 10p across the table to her, grinning as the baby's eyes go wide, following it as it judders around and then collapses a few inches away from her.

'Cash,' says Annabelle, and makes a grab for the coin.

Joey is annoyingly smug. Martina maintains that it's a coincidence. Babies, even baby _Boswells_, don't say 'cash' as a first word. It's just a noise she's been making, (she _has_ been going 'shhhh' quite a lot these days) and she just _happens_ to make it when there's something small within her reach that she can pick up.

But even she has to admit, it is just a _little _bit eerie. It didn't half _sound_ like 'cash.'

* * *

At eleven months, Annabelle starts to walk, and at thirteen months she's confident enough to let go of the furniture and do it on her own. Martina and Joey take her outside, wrapped in a little coat and mittens, and pass her between them, increasing the distance each time, seeing just how much of it she can take.

Joey kneels on the drive in front of his car, holds out his arms as Martina releases her, burning the sight of her into his brain, miniature smile carbon-copied from Martina's face, the sunlight hitting her hair, bringing out the red in it.

'Belle,' he calls, reaching out further towards her, giving her an inviting grin. 'Come to Dad!'

Annabelle pauses mid-step, gives him a searching look, and then changes direction, stumbling to his left and reaching out, putting her little hands on the door of his Jaguar, leaning forward onto it.

Joey's jaw drops. 'Eh!' he says, picking her up and holding her in front of his face. 'I said _Dad_, not _Jag!'_

Martina collapses on the lawn laughing.

* * *

It's not until Belle's three and a half that Martina goes back to work, and even then, it's only for a couple of days a week. Much as Joey's a wonderful, doting parent, much as she trusts him with their daughter, she doesn't like the idea of leaving Annabelle alone at home with him. Who knows what sort of Boswell mischief he might teach her?

Not that she seems to need any sort of teaching. She seems to have the Boswell mischief ingrained into her already, smiling cheekily and trying to get herself out of trouble with a few carefully chosen words, (or quite a lot- she is a talkative little thing when she wants to be.)

She wonders and worries about it all morning, and the first few clients find her much more of a pushover than she used to be.

But when Mister Wilson, as loud and randy as ever, if a bit balder and greyer than before, makes a comment that she's gone 'soft', she pushes thoughts about her husband and child aside and slips fully back into her role, pulling it on like a moth-eaten costume that still fits.

By the time Mrs Cullen bangs her head on the desk and demands a replacement for what must be her thirtieth satellite dish, she's right back into it, and the sharp remarks and shout of 'next!' just roll off her tongue.

* * *

Martina drags her feet as she walks into the living room that evening, the familiar stress weighing her down. She wishes now she hadn't been so stubborn, hadn't insisted on keeping her job even when Joey had said he could support the three of them, because she was determined that her daughter should have at least _one_ parent who earned money by legal means. It's tiring, depressing work, and she's been shouting herself hoarse calling out numbers and _next_ and telling people that no, they cannot have another allowance, and oh, no, she has not missed it at all. For a few years she's been completely, totally happy, and now the real world has seeped back into her little utopia.

Of course, she won't tell Joey that. He'd make mincemeat of her and be smug all evening, insist he's right and she should have stayed at home. He loves being right too much for his own safety.

The animated voice of her daughter wafts up from the other side of the room, and the stress dissipates as Martina sees her there, hair unruly and socks not pulled up, lying on the rug playing with Duplo-men.

The once and future DHSS lady's heart melts and she smiles. She takes a few steps closer.

'Give us the readies. No! Never! We'll burst you. Ahhhh but we are a biiig, biig, fam-i-ly, you can't hurt us. Give us the money…'

Martina blinks. She may not have read all that many parenting books, but she's sure those aren't normal things for a child of Annabelle's age to be saying, and she doesn't remember ever teaching her expressions like 'readies' and 'burst you'.

She squats down, wrapping her arms around Belle's shoulders and giving her a kiss. 'What are you playin'?'

'Mafia,' says Belle, and keeps at it.

Er.

Martina arches an eyebrow. '_Mafia_? Really?'

'Yep.' She scrambles into a proper sitting position, handing her one of the figures. 'This one's Dad. See? Greetings!'

'Oh, yeah?' Martina's voice is wary. 'Dad, is it?'

'He told me,' Belle says.

'Told you what?'

'The story. See one day Daddy and Uncle Jack and and Grandad were in trouble off a bad man,' Martina takes it Annabelle's paraphrasing, given the vocabulary she's using, 'and he had a friend called Yizzel and they stole a candle-bra.'

'You mean _candelabra?_'

Belle has a go at repeating the correct pronunciation, and then carries on with her story. 'And they put it in Uncle Jack's car.' She takes the figure that's meant to be Joey back and tosses it onto the sofa to demonstrate. 'And they wanted monies from Grandad too, and they chased Daddy in the Jag and SMASHED into it like this,' she illustrates with her fist.

'Oh, yeah?' Martina says, because she's not all that sure what else she _can_ say. She's not sure she likes this story, not when it's being related to her by a child who's not old enough to understand half of it.

'And then Uncle Jack found the candla-bra, and Dad and Uncle Adrian and Uncle Billy all got their cars and they took it back to the bad men, and they made the bad men give _them_ monies, because they knew about the candlea, and the men prob'ly stole it, and Daddy and them lot were a strong family who could fix things.'

'Is that so?' _What on earth has Joey been telling her?_

'Yeh, and they were upset too. Uncle Adrian was upset because he was redundered, I don't know what that is, Uncle Billy was sad because Auntie Julie was up the duff, and Auntie Aveline was upset because there was a magazine with pictures of her with no clothes on.'

Martina's mouth drops open.

'I don't think you should play that game, love,' she says feebly.

'_Why?_' Annabelle demands, but Martina's too shocked to answer her right now. She pats Belle on the shoulder, stands up in a daze and turns in the direction of the stairs.

_'JOEY!' _

* * *

'Oh, sweetheart,' Joey says, 'I was just tryin' to entertain 'er!'

He thinks Martina's reaction is just a tad over the top. After all, he's shared with his daughter some of his most precious, memorable experiences, in the hope that she'll learn a thing or two about the way families help each other out. And she loved hearing it, too. She's learned some very advanced new words to boot.

'There are _hundreds_ of ways to entertain her,' Martina says crossly, 'surely you, with that Boswell brain o' yours could have spun _thousands _o' different stories ter keep 'er occupied- do you really think a story with blackmail and theft and criminals, not ter mention teenage pregnancy and pornography- and I don't even know _how_ they're supposed ter fit into it- is really appropriate fer a _three-year-old?!_'

'It teaches a very valuable lesson about fam-i-ly,' Joey says, ignoring the look on her face that indicates she wants to throttle him, 'about unity, and love, and stickin' together. Those are all values Belle should be learnin' at a young age!'

'Yes, _Mister Boswell_,' oh dear, she really _is_ angry with him, 'as is _stickin' ter the law._ Whatever unsavoury things you got up to with yer family- united as you all were- _don't_ need ter be shared with our daughter- especially not at this age.'

Joey thinks quickly. He nods, doing a very convincing act of looking remorseful and having conceded, but he's coming up with a little revenge plan.

'But I can tell her other things, can't I?'

'Provided they're _appropriate._'

'Appropriate,' Joey says, doing his utmost to suppress a crocodile grin, 'of course.'

He's thought of something _very _good to tell Annabelle next time. And there's not a trace of theft or dodgy dealing or criminals in it at all.

Martina goes in to the Social Security again three days later, and when she returns home, Belle greets her with 'Mam, did you _really_ used to kiss a man called Shifty?'

She delivers the line so perfectly, such a brilliant mix of cuteness and innocence, and Martina's face is so priceless that Joey just sits on the stairs and laughs and laughs and laughs.

He's going to be in humungous trouble- but it's worth it.

* * *

When Martina first became a mother, she'd had a very definite picture of what it was going to be like. Granted, a lot of her ideas came from clichés and the word of mouth of others, but she'd thought them to be realistic enough. She thought she knew exactly what she'd worry about, with regard to her daughter, exactly what she'd be joyful about, exactly how she'd react to misbehaviours and how she and Joey might clash over what to do with her. And the most frequent thing she'd say to her daughter, she'd thought she'd known with one hundred per cent certainty, would be _I love you_.

The most frequent thing turns out, in actuality, to be _I thought I told you_.

And always, in return, comes a 'yes, _but…_'

It's not that she doesn't love her daughter- she does, she does so very, very much. It's just that she thinks, nay, _knows_ she's told Belle many things, and Belle, in return, always has a sneaky way round whatever the specific instruction was.

And it's not that Annabelle's naughty, as such, well, not considering who her father is, it's not as if she's nasty or spiteful or deliberately bratty, it's just that if something's not to her taste, she sees no shame in rectifying the situation by doing what she deems best, regardless of what others tell her. It's so very _Joey_- she just cheerfully goes along her own way, justifying herself with clever little excuses (which never work on Martina- not when she's used to the more developed, adult excuses Joey's been pitching to her for years).

At six years old, she's got her own little set of rules, her own interpretations to every instruction which stretch it 'til it's barely recognizable. And she always, always, _always_ has to have the last word.

'I thought I told you not ter play with that,' Martina says one evening, catching her daughter with a new car part Joey brought home, with the intention of somehow fitting it to his Jag, but which has been sitting in the kitchen for weeks, because he doesn't actually know how to do it. It's sharp, dangerously so, and the parental warnings about staying away from it make it even more intriguing to Belle.

'Yes, _but _I'm not playing with it,' Belle says without batting an eyelid. She smiles sweetly. 'I'm making sure it's safe so no-one _else_ plays with it.'

'Nice try,' says Martina, and takes it off her.

She's got a lot of Martina in her too, though, and don't let anyone say she hasn't. If Annabelle feels some injustice has been done to her, she tightens her mouth, and to Martina it's like looking in a mirror. For all her trying to dupe her parents and anyone else who tells her to do something, she knows full well if she herself is being duped, and she's quick to express her indignation. She's not miserable, though. Martina's biggest fear had been that Belle would be born depressed, would look at life cynically like her, but she seems to have dodged that particular pothole, and Martina offers up prayers of thanks about that every night. She'd rather cheery insolence than miserable sulkiness any day.

* * *

It isn't often Joey's siblings come to their house, but, for perhaps the first time in years Billy's got Francesca spending the day with him, and, unsure what to do with her now she's older (and totally indoctrinated by Julie to the extent that she makes plain her disdain for all of her father's family), Billy's come here, in the hope that his older brother will know what to do.

An afternoon with an annoying, tactless Boswell brother and a sulky teenager sitting on her sofa is not something Martina enjoys one bit. She disappears into the kitchen for hours at a time, boiling the kettle and then boiling it again so that she can stay in there for as long as possible so as to avoid having to listen to Joey teasing Billy, to the alternation between the loud music emitting from Francesca's headphones and the long silences as she refuses to speak to them.

The kettle whistles and she takes it off, laying it on the side but not pouring it. It might be in her best interests to get around to buying an electric one, so she can just flick the switch over and over. Ah well. She's been 'putting the kettle on' for twenty minutes now- she's going to have to start doing something else. Martina gets out a mug, puts it on the table and stares at it.

'Aren't you supposed to put stuff _in_ that cup before you drink it?' comes a taunting voice.

'Don't be snarky, Annabelle,' Martina mutters, siphoning a spoonful of coffee into her cup just for show. 'Anyway, I thought you were in there, with Francesca.'

Annabelle's fascinated by the older girl- by her rebellious dress sense and miserable attitude. For the past three hours she's been trying to start up a conversation with her cousin, acting borderline ridiculous to try and get her attention, to little avail. The most Francesca's done is manage a half-hearted smile or comment before going back into her sulk.

And Belle (like her father) is completely undaunted by the fact that someone she's trying to annoy wants to be left alone, and has been persevering nonetheless.

'I was,' Belle says, 'but I haven't seen you in so _long_. Why are you out here?'

Her cheeky smile indicates she probably has a good enough idea of why Martina is out here; she's deliberately being facetious.

Martina narrows her eyes and begins to rack her brain for something to say, but her train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming.

'I THOUGHT I'D FIND YOU HERE, BILLY!' the shrill voice rings through the house.

Martina groans. It's Julie. _Just_ what she needs.

'I DON'T RECALL SAYIN' YOU COULD BRING MY DAUGHTER HERE, I'VE TOLD YOU, I DON'T WANT HER INVOLVED WITH ALL THAT BOSWELL LOT!'

'NOW YOU LISTEN 'ERE, JULIE!'

There's a smash as something's thrown, and Martina winces, wondering what she'll have to replace later.

And then the whole building is filled with hollers and shrieks and language far too inappropriate to be uttered in front of other people.

Martina lets out a hiss of breath through her teeth and turns to her daughter. 'Go upstairs, Annabelle.' She doesn't want Belle getting caught in the crossfire, especially if they've actually escalated to physical violence.

'And miss all this?'

'Go upstairs and _stay there_,' Martina instructs crossly, ignoring Belle's pout and sweeping into the living room. She's going to see to this.

Julie's voice is climbing in pitch. They're all but in each other's faces, practically shouting into each other's mouths.

'AND I DON'T WANT YOU EXPOSIN' MY DAUGHTER TO THAT KIND OF RUBBISH, BILLY BOSWELL!'

'SHE'S MY DAUGHTER TOO, YOU KNOW!'

Oh, Martina's had more than enough. Shooting a glare at Joey, who's pretending not to listen (or perhaps _actually_ not listening- he's got a car magazine and if he finds a picture of a Jaguar he can be out for days),she pushes herself between them.

'Right. That's it. _Out,_ both o' you.'

Billy and Julie manage to stop rowing for long enough to register what's just been said.

'Eh,' Billy says, 'we're tryin' to sort somethin' out!'

'OH, IS THAT WHAT YOU CALL IT, BILLY BOSWELL!'

'Well, can you sort things out somewhere else?' Martina demands, tapping her foot.

Billy's already on his feet but that doesn't stop him from yelling nonetheless. 'I CAME HERE FOR JOEY'S ADVICE, ALL RIGHT?!'

This seems to get Joey's attention- at last. He puts down his magazine and stands up.

'_Bill_-y!'

Billy pauses. Julie stands there fuming. Francesca seems to have perked up, and is enjoying the drama.

'Why don't you go 'ave your quarrel elsewhere- okay?'

His little brother fumes. 'Are you kickin' me out?'

'Well, yes, son! We don't all wanna be exposed to your irrational anger- now why don't you go and sort it out outside?'

'Oh, yes, let your Joey fight your battles for ya,' Julie snarls sarcastically, and Martina shoots her a ferocious glare.

Francesca, with a self-satisfied smirk that she passes between the four adults, rises from the sofa. 'Well, I'm off. It's been fun.' And she strides for the door, waving over her shoulder. 'S'later, Annabelle.'

Joey flops back onto the sofa in relief as Billy and Julie leave after Francesca, still rowing, but Martina's brow furrows at Francesca's parting words.

She turns, and lo and behold, she sees Belle sitting at the foot of the staircase, having inched down one step at a time when no-one was looking.

'Er- I thought I told you ter stay upstairs,' Martina says.

'Yeah, but I couldn't hear what they were saying from up there,' says Belle, and bounds through into the next room.

* * *

Joey sits at the kitchen table and chuckles to himself, the hilarity of his own joke too much for him to handle. He studies the form once, twice, then laughs again.

Annabelle looks up and scowls at him. 'Why are you laughing?'

'Oh, no reason, sweetheart, no reason.'

Belle doesn't look convinced. She curls her mouth, the way Martina does, and Joey smirks.

'Belle, how would you like to help me out, sunshine?'

She squints. 'Can I have some money if I do?'

'How does a pound sound?'

His daughter fakes a yawn.

'Two?'

'Okay!' she's grinning now, the gap where she's lost one of her top teeth visible. She reminds him of a cross between Jack and Aveline when she does this. He always used to bribe them, either with coins or sweets, when he wanted to sneak off somewhere- it was the only way they'd let him go without immediately dobbing. And he doesn't begrudge giving Annabelle a little extra pocket money, not when his scheme, if done right, should result in him gaining fifty extra pounds per week.

He hands the form over to her.

'Run down the DWP,' he instructs her, catching himself before he says DHSS, 'and give this to your Mam. See if you can get her to autograph that line down there,' he points it out, 'okay?'

'Why?'

'Because…' Joey clicks his tongue, 'because…I need it. Because of me strugglin' fam-i-ly, sweetheart. They might fade away, and this form will make sure they don't.'

She doesn't understand.

'Your mother will get what I mean.'

'Okay,' Belle says again, bouncing out of her seat with the form scrunched in her hand.

'Oh, and Annabelle?'

She pauses in the doorway, her ponytail swinging round as she turns.

'I didn't send you to do this, okay?'

'But you did.'

'Yeah,' Joey laughs, 'but if anyone asks, you came up with this yourself. I am far too busy to think up _schemes_.'

Belle gives him a weird look, but runs along all the same, and Joey sits back in his chair, chuckling and wishing there was a way he could have attached a microphone to her, so he could hear what Martina has to say about all this.

* * *

'Next!' Martina calls, snatching up a fresh form from the pile on her desk. She writes the date in the box at the top and folds her hands, waiting for her client to start whining about house prices and stolen items, but no such noise comes.

Martina looks up, and there sits her daughter, swinging one foot and grinning.

She perches very primly, very sweetly on her chair, a picture of innocence in her frilly frock and with her hair in a white bow, and the expression on her face reminds Martina so much of Joey at his most devious she has to stifle a laugh.

'What are you doin' 'ere?'

'I came to say I love you,' says Belle.

Martina raises an eyebrow; she's not convinced. (Not about whether or not her daughter loves her, she knows _that_, but her motives for coming here today are entirely different, Martina's sure, and also entirely not her own.)

'I love you too,' she replies. 'Now why are you _really _'ere?'

'Can you write your name on this?' Annabelle asks eagerly, handing over a piece of paper. Martina studies it for less than half a second and her suspicions are confirmed. But she plays along. 'Any particular reason?'

'For an autograph.'

'An autograph.' Martina smirks. 'Did _Dad_ put you up ter this?'

'Dad? No, he's very busy not thinking up schemes.' She twiddles her thumbs. 'But he did say that he needs it because…because…his struggling family can't afford it and they might…fade away. Yeah.' She pauses. 'Did I get it right?'

'I'm inclined to think so, luv. I'm inclined to think so.' She leans forward over the desk. 'And 'ow much did Dad promise you if you gave me this?'

'Two quid,' says Belle unashamedly.

Martina's eyebrows are climbing so high they'll have gone right over the top of her head soon enough. 'Oh yeah? Well you can tell yer Dad that if 'e wants even ter try and trick me into signin' over a large amount o' money to 'im, he's gonna have ter do better than that.'

She plonks the form back on the desk and pushes it toward Annabelle, who smirks.

'If I do tell him, how much money can I have?'

Martina folds her arms. She's going to have to have a very serious conversation with her husband tonight about the merits (or lack thereof) of bribing one's children to do one's dirty work. Even so, she thinks, she's not all that sure Belle didn't have a rather large hand in the bribing in the first place. For someone so young, she's a bit too concerned with money for her mother's liking (Martina's even caught her trying to check the stock market once, though she can't _possibly_ understand what it all means).

She's a right little Boswell.

But she'll be damned if that doesn't make her smile.

* * *

Joey feels a fond flutter in his heart as Belle leaps from the Jag, running straight to Freddie's arms.

'Just look at you, then!' Freddie exclaims, 'all the colours of the rainbow, Belle! All the colours of the rainbow!'

He ruffles her hair, and Annabelle scowls. 'Don't, Grandad!'

She's been doing it all her life, but Joey still finds it strange that Belle calls Freddie 'Grandad'. To him, Freddie's 'Dad', _Grandad_'s 'Grandad' and no-one else can answer to that name in quite the same way.

Grandad himself is gone now, having teetered on 'til eighty-eight, and it still doesn't feel right to Joey to pass by Number Twenty-Eight, Kelsall Street and not to see him sitting there with his beady eyes and shiny bald head, demanding his next meal.

It's been two and a half years since he's gone, and the family have only just gathered the courage to actually sort through his things, to clear out his house and make it into a home for Billy. All the Boswell siblings have come along, and, seeing as Martina has to work and it's Belle's half-term, Joey's had no choice but to bring Annabelle with him. It's not ideal, he thinks, not at all. She's too young to have to handle conversations about dead relatives' things.

Joey steps into the parlour, the musty smell enveloping his nostrils, and he feels the bubble of sadness welling up again. Surely it was only yesterday they were all in here, sitting around Grandad, reminding him of how he contributed to the family by charging them rent?

'Well, then,' says Freddie, twisting the binbag in his hand, 'where shall we start, then?'

'You _would_ be cheerful and unfeeling at a time like _this_, wouldn't you, Freddie Boswell?!' Nellie snaps, and then they're off, screeching about carts and tarts and other such things, and Joey tunes his parents out, instead looking round the room and absorbing it all, the layer of dust coating the empty canary cage, the ornaments gone from the shelves. Over in the far corner, Billy and Jack are having a row of their own, over who gets Grandad's telly. Aveline's whining about what all the dust'll do to her hair. Adrian seems to be the only one who's actually gotten stuck into it, and is sorting through a pile of old clothes he's brought down from upstairs.

Joey glances across at Belle. She's kneeling on the floor with Davey, Adrian's youngest, who's also been dragged along, the two of them methodically going through a drawer as if they actually know what they're doing. Joey can't actually hear what they're saying to each other, but from the sounds of it, Belle's leading the operation, dishing out instructions to her cousin with stern authority, despite her being three years younger and a good deal smaller than him.

'_Hey_,' she says loudly, lifting something carefully out the bottom of the drawer and holding it up. 'What's _this_?'

Everyone stops what they're doing to look- even Nellie and Freddie cease fire.

'Give us a look, then, sweetheart,' Joey says, coming over.

'We found it underneath all his place mats,' Davey contributes, putting a hand on the object, and Belle snatches it away.

'Don't touch it, Davey. You don't know where it's been.'

Joey can't help a wry laugh at his daughter's serious, parental tone, and holds out his hand, into which is reluctantly placed a rather heavy cloth bag. It jingles and clinks and Joey realises in astonishment that there must be a hefty sum of money inside.

'Fancy Grandad havin' all that money stashed away!' Nellie exclaims.

Joey nods in agreement. 'Yeah, I mean, he had enough little sets o' secret savings that we _knew about,_ didn't he? Imagine how many others he's got in here?'

'Yeah, well, the thing is,' Freddie contributes, eager for his input in the conversation, 'this bag 'ere was designed to fit inside somethin'- most likely one of those china dogs he used to have on the mantelpiece. He probably kept it in there all these years and then moved it when…'

'When he knew he didn't have long left,' Adrian finishes. 'He knew Jack was probably gonna sell them.'

They all glare at Jack, who shrugs. 'Well, how was I supposed to know there might've been somethin' in 'em? Just looked like old rubbish to me- and I got ten quid for 'em…'

The glares intensify.

'Well…well, it's not as if I was just cashin' in or anythin'? But what was 'e gonna do with 'em- 'e's dead!'

Joey just shakes his head.

Annabelle stares up at Freddie with fascination. 'How did you know all that about the bag?'

'I've been in the buying and selling game for a long time.' Joey's dad winks. 'Natural talent, kid. Natural talent.'

* * *

Annabelle can talk about nothing but the 'secret money.' All throughout the day she's going on about it, even when the family's three-hour discussion about what to do with it is over, even when they're sorting out the rest of the stuff.

Joey's ducked out now, intent on getting the stash of cash to the bank and put in one of their accounts before anything can happen to it, and Belle's sitting beside him in the front seat of the Jag, chattering on and on about what she would do if she had the two thousand pounds they found today.

Joey's half-listening, half-concentrating on the road when a white car comes cruising in out of nowhere, gliding smoothly around in front of his Jag and cutting off his path.

Oh no, not them. Not now. He thought they'd gone for good.

Joey slams his foot on the brake, skidding to a stop about two feet from the door of the other car. His heart starts doing double time. He knows it shouldn't- he knows them, they're _pathetic_, but it always does just the same.

He stops the engine. The doors of the other car swing open, and the two men step out, walking slowly towards him, menacing and yet embarrassing-looking- they're getting too old for this.

Joey's getting too old for this, too. He's forty-five. He doesn't want to be playing mob wars anymore, he just wants to get on with things- family things, important things. He sighs, pulls his key out of the ignition. Better get this over with.

'Who are they?' Belle demands.

'Bast-' Joey begins, and then realises who he's talking to. 'They're bad men, Belle. Crooks. They used to like to pick on me family from time to time. Seems like they're up to their old tricks again.'

'Hey- the ones from that story you used to tell me? Yizzel and that?'

Joey's surprised she remembers. Martina forbade him ever to tell that story again. He smirks. It's been three years, and his tale has still had a profound influence on her. _That's a point to me, Martina._

'Those are the ones, sweetheart.'

'But I thought you made 'em up!'

Joey loses grip on the wheel- thank goodness the Jag's engine's not switched on. 'What gave you that idea?'

'Mam said.'

Joey snickers in spite of the potentially dangerous situation, shakes his head. 'When we get home, tell your Mam she's just provin' I'm always right when she says things like that.'

Belle doesn't seem to get it, but she nods.

'Now stay there, okay. Whatever you see me do, or whatever you see them do, you don't get out. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'Good girl.' He climbs out, walks into the midst of the familiar thugs.

'What is it you require of me _this_ time, gentlemen?

'Well, well, Yizzel,' says his mate. He's still got the same menacing voice, though it croaks a bit more than it used to. 'Look who we've run into.'

'Run into. Yeah.'

'Okay, okay, forget all that stuff, just cut to the chase. What are you after?'

'Heard you were goin' through yer Grandad's things, didn't we, Yizzel?'

'Yeah. Your Grandad's things.'

'Now, the thing about your Grandad is that a few years back we had a bet with him, didn't we, Yizzel?'

'Yeah. A bet.'

'And as a result of that he promised to us a small bag o' money- a little velvet bag o' the stuff he'd been saving away…'

Joey feels his stomach knot.

'And he had it delivered to us, didn't he, Yizzel? Only he fobbed us off. He gave us a different bag, didn't he, Yizzel?'

'Yeah. A different bag.'

'And what's that gotta do with me?' Joey already knows the answer, but he asks all the same.

'We know you cleaned out 'is 'ouse today, don't we?'

'And what makes you think we found anythin' like that?'

'Well, we ran into your Billy, you see,' Yizzel's mate says. 'Down at the cash machine, around lunch time. He was tellin' anyone who'd hear.'

Joey cringes and curses under his breath. Billy will _never, ever_ learn, will he?

'We found out something interesting from listenin' to him, didn't we, Yizzel?'

'Yeah, something interesting…what, gov?'

Yizzel's mate rolls his eyes. 'That our Joey here was plannin' to take said bag o' money to the bank this afternoon.'

Oh, Joey is going to kill Billy. Why can he _still_ not keep his gob shut? He's in his thirties now, and he still hasn't progressed past the age of five in some respects.

'So we thought we'd explain the situation to you and collect what's ours.'

'On yer rocket.'

He wants to turn around, to walk away, but Yizzel's mate's hand shoots out and grabs his shoulder. 'I'll tell you what, seeing as I'm a generous man,' he reaches into his coat pocket and brings out a bag almost identical to Joey's, though visibly empty, 'I'll do you a swap. Your Grandad's bag for the false one he sent us.'

'No deal.'

'Hold 'im, Yizzel.'

And then Joey's arms are pinned behind his back, and though he could easily fight both of them off, the shock of the sudden movement is so much he doesn't even think of defending himself until Yizzel's mate has already felt in his pockets and withdrawn the real bag. They're really losing their touch, if they have to actually resort to physical violence to achieve their ends. And it makes him furious that they've actually succeeded in such a pathetic attempt.

'Give that back!' Joey hisses, making a lunge for the bag.

'Tsk tsk tsk. Mustn't snatch, must we, Joey? Not nice manners to snatch, is it, Yizzel?'

'No, not nice.'

'Hand that over,' Joey growls, 'or I'll…'

'Or you'll what?'

Joey and Yizzel's mate glower at each other.

'What's this, then?' Yizzel suddenly asks, looking over his shoulder. Joey turns, dreading whatever it is. How much worse can this _get?_

His suspicions are confirmed when he sees a flash of auburn hair and blue dress, and then his daughter is by his side.

'Eh,' Joey says, raising a warning finger at Annabelle, 'I thought I told you to stay in the car.'

'Yeah, but I couldn't see what was going on.'

Yizzel and his mate eye her up and exchange glances.

'Well, look at this one, Yizzel! It's a baby Boswell.'

'Yeah, look. Like a little Joey, but she's a girl.'

'And a redhead.'

'Yeah.'

Yizzel's mate flicks a lock of her hair, and Belle screws up her face and gives him the best Martina-scowl Joey's ever seen.

'_Don't_ touch my hair.'

Yizzel's mate laughs again, but Yizzel actually takes a step back before realising what he's doing. It's funny, in a way, watching a criminal back away from a six-year-old. Or it would be, had Joey not been both terrified for and angry with Belle for disobeying him.

He widens his eyes, a further warning. '_Annabelle_, get-back-in-the-car.'

'I didn't imagine you to look like that,' Belle says to Yizzel. 'I thought you'd have a beard.'

Yizzel's mate doubles over with laughter, and Joey has to bite his lip to keep his mouth in a straight line. He feels his anger at his daughter lessening, though he's still going to have a long talk with her when all this is over.

'What are you doing with Great Grandad's money?' Belle continues. 'Why are there two bags?'

'Ahh, this one's a fake. Here. Knock yourself out, kid.' Yizzel's mate tosses the other bag to Belle, who catches it neatly. 'Now, Joey, we'll be bidding you adieu. We've got our readies, I think it's time to call it quits, isn't it, Yizzel?'

'Yeah,' Yizzel says, 'call it quits.' They take dramatic strides towards their cars.

'Wait a minute!' Annabelle lets go of Joey's hand, runs towards them.

'_Belle!'_ he shouts, but she takes no notice, goes straight up to Yizzel and grabs his hand. He looks petrified.

'Can I try on your hat?'

'_Annabelle_!' Joey shouts again, hastening to her side, dragging her away. Belle tightly clutches the bag in her hand.

'Steady on, Yizzel!' Joey hears his mate reprimand. 'She's only a kid. Don't let her knock you about.'

'Kids frighten me, gov.'

'Everything frightens you, Yizzel.' He turns to Joey. 'Well, must be off. Better get this lot put safely away, hadn't we?' They retreat back into the car.

Joey holds Annabelle's arm so tightly she starts to protest he's hurting her, but he doesn't let go. He's not going to until those bastards are gone. He's fuming, his teeth grinding. How _dare_ they think they have any right to Grandad's hard-saved money?

'Cheers, Joey!' Yizzel's mate shouts out the window of his car, and the two drive off with a squeal of brakes.

Joey lets loose a word that really shouldn't be said in front of children. 'I don't _believe_ it! They've made off with all Grandad's savings!' He kicks a stone across the road.

'Nah,' says Belle.

Joey turns to her, about to demand what she means, and then let her have it for not doing as she was told, to find her dangling the bag she's got in front of him, the money inside jingling.

He gapes at her and she grins. 'They got the wrong one.'

Somehow she must've managed to switch them when she went up to Yizzel. Joey just stares. 'How did you do that?'

'Natural talent, Dad. Natural talent.'

* * *

Martina's forgotten to change the date on the calendar, and it's only when she does, far too late, really, at half past eleven at night, that she realises something profound.

It's been exactly ten years since she walked out on Shifty.

She can remember it as vividly, pardon the cliché, as if it were yesterday- how depressed she'd been, how filled with despair, how convinced there was no hope for her. She'd almost gone as far as to consider ending her own life. But instead she'd taken a risk, let go of him and started a new life for herself, just hoping, just _praying_ that her decision would be worth it.

She thinks about Joey and Belle. They'd come back very late this evening- only half an hour ago, in fact- having spent the entire day in Grandad's old house, and though she'd known sorting through the old man's things would be very taxing on Joey, he'd been oddly happy when they got in, and Annabelle far too excited to have been behaving herself.

The tale they'd told her had made Martina cross- both with Joey for being so irresponsible, for letting Belle anywhere near Yizzel and his mate, and with Belle for putting herself at risk and disobeying her father's instructions-but now, as she thinks about it, she can't help but see the endearing, amusing side to it. Typical Joey, having a confrontation with crooks over a mysterious money bag. And Belle, well, she'll have simply _loved_ her mafia moment. Ever since Joey told her that candlestick story when she was three, and despite Martina's attempts to get her interested in the sorts of things _normal_ children her age are into, the girl's been obsessed with gangsters. Not that Martina loves her any less for it. As Nellie once said to her, _there's nothing ordinary about a Boswell_, and that's certainly true. Annabelle is anything but ordinary, and definitely a Boswell. She's still four years short of a decade, and already she's successfully outwitted two notorious (if rather on the petty side) criminals.

Martina doesn't know how she's wound up with a husband who fancies himself the Godfather and a daughter who fancies herself not just the Godfather but the entire mafia combined, but she knows for certain that she wouldn't exchange them for anything. She's glad she made the decision to leave Shifty. She'd hoped, in her heart of hearts that something better might have lain round the corner, and though it came as a complete surprise, is completely different to anything she could have pictured, involves a man and his family she never thought she'd be able to tolerate, let alone love, the life she's got now _is _better. It's much, _much_ better than anything she could have dreamed up.

Joey pokes his head around the corner, swaddled in his monogrammed dressing-gown. 'Greetings!'

'I've been thinkin',' says Martina, and relays to him her revelation about how long it's been.

'And ten years well spent they've been, haven't they, dear lady?' Joey climbs in beside her, wrapping his arms around her.

'_Ten years well spent they've been…_d'you '_ave_ ter speak like that? Can't you ever open yer mouth without yer words soundin' like a slogan?' Martina says, by which she means _yes, of course they have._ Eight and a half of those years she's been with Joey Boswell. Seven of them they've been married. Six of them they've had the most wonderful, if a bit obnoxious, daughter she could ever wish for.

And she's never regretted any of that.

They argue about the most trivial of things, there are always rows, lectures about morality and hiding money and renditions of _I thought I told you_, and sometimes, yes, she wakes up with a cloud over her head for no reason, but on the whole, she's happy. _They're_ happy. And Heaven knows they deserve some happiness. She's going to savour every moment of it.

'Joey Boswell,' she says, assuming a stern voice for just a moment so she has his full attention, 'I love you.'

'And you know somethin', little DHSS lady? I love you too.' He leans in close.

Martina smiles contently, shutting her eyes as Joey kisses her, softly at first, and then more roughly. She loses herself in the sensation.

'Yuck.'

All at once the romantic moment passes, and she opens her eyes to see Belle sitting at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around her pillow.

'I thought we told you ter go ter bed.'

'Yeah, _but_…'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'Why is it there's always a '_yeah, but'_? It's nearly midnight. You've been up since five helpin' out at Kelsall Street. Go ter bed.'

'But there's so much to talk about!' Annabelle says, bouncing up and down.

'And it'll all still be waitin' for you ter talk about it tomorrow. _Go ter bed._'

Belle takes no notice, climbs up and over the bed, squeezing herself in between them and arranging her pillow over theirs.

'Er, what are you doin'?'

'Going to bed.'

'Yer _own_ bed.'

Again she takes no notice, settling down between them and yawning.

Martina looks over her head at Joey, who's smirking. She glances from one to the other and sighs, shakes her head and reaches for the lamp.

'You should've seen it, Mam,' Belle says just as she turns the light off, 'when I outsmarted Yizzel and his mate…'

'I _said_ you can talk about it in the mornin'. Go ter _sleep_, Belle.'

'If I'd have been around when they stole that candle thing…'

'_Annabelle…'_

'But _if I'd been around_…'

'Belle, what did I just say?'

'But _if __I had_, I'd have been good at helpin' Dad sort it out, wouldn't I?'

'Of course you would, sweetheart,' comes Joey's voice through the darkness, 'you'd have been _fantastic_, Belle, _fantastic._'

'_Good night_, both o' you,' Martina says firmly. It's getting later and later, and she's exhausted. She settles back and shuts her eyes, smiling in spite of herself as she feels Belle shuffle closer to her, feels Joey's arm go around both of them.

A glorious moment of silence follows, and Martina's quite content to let herself drift towards sleep.

'But, you _know_…'

Martina groans. _No. Stop it._

'They'll be cross when find out they don't have the readies, won't they?'

'Don't talk like that, Annabelle, please. You're not a gangster.'

'But,' says Belle sleepily, 'I might be. One day.'

Always having to have the last word.

Oh, Annabelle Boswell is her father's daughter, all right.

* * *

**This one was fun. Belle's characterisation was hard to get right, though, but writing her made me grin. Random trivia: I imagine when Belle gets older for her to look like Emma Stone. No idea why.**

**Next chapter was going to be the last, but after a conversation about short chapters I got inspired to write two brief interlude sort of things, more snapshots of little bits of their lives than full chapters with plots, and I'm going to put those up within a short time of each other before I put the finale up. They should be a little bit of a breather, considering the finale is a whopping twenty thousand words or something.**

**There are some points I haven't covered in this fic, like what happened with Shifty and the Boswells, and everything that happened with Martina and her brother, but this story would be far too long. I am working on Martina's backstory, but I'm planning to publish it separately so it can stand alone.**

**Very short preview for next chapter:** _Yes, Joey thinks, he has a good feeling about this._


	8. Worth it so far: Interlude 1: 1994

**¡Qué sorpresa! A short chapter! Well, shortish. Really, this chapter's pointless, it's just Joey's reflection, more than anything else, to get a bit of his perspective on their relationship while it's quite new, because the finale is all from Martina's POV, and you only really see her thoughts on fairly major events. This goes really quickly, doesn't have much of a plot, but basically, as I said, it's just reflections, really. **

**Fairly major spoilers for the finale. Parts of this may be confusing now, but will make more sense when the final chapter goes up.**

* * *

**Worth it so far**

**1994**

_Yes, he thinks, he has a good feeling about this._

_~X~X_

Three weeks into a relationship is a rather difficult time. You're used to the other person _a little_ by now, but you're still adjusting to being _with_ them, to those things about them you'd change if you could but can't.

There are just a few bits and pieces Joey would change about Martina- just little things, insignificant little habits that irk him. The fact that she wants the same radio station constantly when they're in the Jag- won't even let him switch during the adverts. The fact that if he so much as mentions the Social Security, even in a casual conversation that has nothing to do with money, she automatically assumes he's up to no good. The fact that when he stays over, she always, always has to sleep with her arm draped around his _neck_. It's as if she's subconsciously trying to strangle him, and it's uncomfortable. No matter how many times he moves it, she'll always stir and it'll end up there again.

But Joey would leave those well alone, if only he could change Martina's more worrisome habits. She doesn't like to talk about her feelings, has to be coaxed, and if he pushes her too hard she shuts down altogether. She's still very quick to believe the worst of him, to try to snatch away her trust, and they've fought about that several times. Joey's beginning to make some progress, he thinks, but Martina's wariness still concerns him, and, he decides, he's going to stamp it out of her somehow. Someday he'll make her realise he's not going to abandon her, even if takes him the rest of both their lives to hammer the message home.

But all in all, when they're not arguing, and when she's not trapping his neck with her arm in her sleep, and when she's not tarring him with the same brush as all the people who've hurt her in the past, when they're just going about their daily business, what they have, Joey thinks, is quite good. It's more than quite good, in fact. It's _fantastic._

The family is wary. Of course they are, given his past history with relationships, given Roxy, especially, and given Martina's job, but Joey thinks he can sense they're warming to her already. Grandad's even made an effort to ask about her once or twice whilst snatching his tray out of Joey's hands. And Martina's even started talking to his brothers when she encounters them outside work. They'll all get along well soon enough, he predicts. In fact, he's certain of it. And he's glad of it. After spending so long with Roxy, who resented his devotion to his family, Martina supports it, encourages him to make the most of it. The loss of her brother means that, while she does go on about their 'sickening unity' when in the DSS, she wants him to appreciate them, to know how lucky he is to have them.

This is going to work out, he thinks. He has a good feeling about it. He hasn't felt that way about many relationships. His first girlfriend had been a schoolyard crush more than anything, had only lasted a week. A couple of similar short romances had followed- most of them double-dates with Jack which all resulted in a couple of bonks and then a break-up. Then there'd been Alice, who'd looked absolutely _gorgeous_- physically, had been everything he'd wanted in a woman- but he'd never really got the sense that there was any proper connection between them, and anyway, she always used to slam the door of his Jag. Then a few flings here and there, he can't even remember the names of most of them, and then Roxy Hartwell, who, of course, left him constantly feeling _tragically_ in love.

The love he feels for Martina is different. It's not tragic and consuming, it's safe and comforting and warm, the sort of thing that doesn't make him feel like it'll tear him apart, but instead puts him back together again, makes him feel whole for the first time since, well, he would have thought since he lost Oscar, but, really, he hasn't felt whole like this since Roxy left the first time, if he's honest.

Yes, he thinks, he has a good feeling about this.

* * *

'Kissin' in the street, they were. _In the street! _ For anyone to see!'

'Billy, we've all heard this story,' Joey says, raising his eyes skywards, 'I'm sure it's not gonna suddenly get more interesting on its tenth rendition.'

He and his siblings are all gathered round the kitchen table, having met up for lunch, and Billy's rambling on about what's been his favourite topic of conversation for the last three weeks- Joey and Martina's surprising, unexpected relationship. Of course, by this time it's not so surprising or unexpected- they've had nearly a month to come to terms with it, and, with some minor grumbling and questioning from various parties, they have. It's only Billy who still insists on demanding what everyone thinks and relating the 'traumatic' way he discovered their relationship.

'She turned up at our 'ouse, right,' he begins for the _eleventh_ time.

'Yeah, we know,' says Adrian.

'And Joey went outside to 'ave a word with her- and they were gone a long time, so I went to see what was keeping Joey…'

'And there they were, kissin' in the street, yeah, we know,' says Jack, 'and if you don't shut yer gob and stop goin' on about it every minute of every day, next time someone walks into the street, there _you'll_ be, hangin' from a lamp post.'

Billy opens his mouth to retaliate, and Joey thinks it's high time he intervened. He holds up his hands. 'Okay, okay, that's enough, now cut it, both of you. I think by now we've grasped the fact that Martina and I kissed in the street. I think we've grasped the fact that I've moved on from Roxy and am datin' the DHSS lady. We've all got the picture. Now why don't we start settin' the table for Mam, eh?'

Adrian, Aveline and Jack nod, immediately get up and help Joey lay out the cutlery.

Billy remains in his seat, brow furrowed.

'In the _street_,' he says.

Joey groans. Sometimes he despairs of that lad.

* * *

'Where, precisely, are you takin' me, Mister Boswell?'

'If I told you that, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?'

Martina folds her arms, stares out the car window. 'It'd better be a decent one to 'ave pulled me out o' work for.'

Joey drums his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. 'Er…I'm not so sure about that, sweetheart. It's not all that creative- I'm savin' the really special surprises for our one-year anniversary.'

'I shudder to think.'

Joey laughs, and resolves to come up with something really good for when they _have_ been together a year, just so her 'shuddering to think' will be justified.

'If this is supposedly a surprise, shouldn't I be blindfolded or somethin'?'

'I told you, sunshine, it's not_ that good._'

They pull up outside the building, climb out of the car, and Joey, his 'surprise' seeming stupider by the minute, nonetheless raises his arms to make a triumphant announcement.

'Happy three weeks, sweetheart!'

'The pub?' Martina raises her eyebrows at him. 'You dragged me out o' work to go _drinkin'?'_

'Not just _any_ pub, Martina!' Joey throws up his arms. 'Doesn't this place have any special significance to you?'

She smiles in spite of herself, shakes her head at him. 'O' course it does. You don't honestly think I'd forget _that _quickly, do you?'

'Well, I should hope not, Martina. I'd be payin' to have someone examine your brain if I thought you'd forgotten our first date so quickly.'

Martina raises a questioning eyebrow at him. 'That was a _date?'_

'Of course. There was wine and kissin' and witty conversation- you don't think that qualifies as a date?' True, it technically falls outside the three weeks, was nearly a month beforehand at least, but Joey still considers it a special moment in their history. After all, without that evening, he probably never would have realised the true extent of his feelings for Martina, probably wouldn't be here now to celebrate the fact that they've been dating for nearly a month.

'There was wine because you insisted on buyin' it,' Martina retorts, 'there was kissin' because we were drunk, and as fer the conversation, it was about as witty as your Billy.'

Joey laughs again. She's making jabs about his family- she always does, but it's so different to when Roxy did it. Martina doesn't mean any harm; he's certain she's secretly fond of them, just as she was secretly fond of him.

'I suppose I can hardly complain, though, can I? Last time I came 'ere I 'ad a man buy me drinks and follow me home. Maybe I'll be lucky again this time.'

Joey plays along, pretending to be insanely jealous. 'And I shall try to cure my broken heart while you're gallivantin' off with whoever that is…'

Martina makes a face. 'And you say _I_ 'ave abandonment issues.'

It's meant to be a joke, a tease, but it makes Joey slightly uncomfortable when she says this, because, yes, she clearly does, and she really needs to address them at some point. But for now he lets it slide, because she's happy enough at the moment, _they're_ happy enough, and he's had this evening planned for a week. And no-one and nothing is going to stop this occasion from being just wonderful, just _lovely_, just as he planned.

'Not _you two_!' exclaims the bartender as soon as they enter.

Joey puts on his most dignified expression. 'Greetings! And why, may I ask, would our presence offend you in any way? Perhaps our combined brilliance is too much to cope with in one sitting?'

The man behind the counter looks just a tad confused. Eloquence, apparently, isn't one of his strong points, and Joey's complex manner of articulation is wasted on him. He rephrases.

'What's the matter with us, eh? Too much for you to handle, son?'

'No, no, don't get me wrong, mate, I'm glad o' the business- 'specially when you're in the chair. You forked out a lot the other night, and if I get a massive tip like that again I ain't gonna say nothin'. It's just…' he stops mid-way through polishing a beer glass, leans in close. 'It's just that some o' my other customers 'ad a few complaints about the…er, the snoggin' that went on last time.'

Joey snorts, doing his utmost to hold in the eruption of laughter that wants to escape him. Beside him, Martina's gone rather pink. She glowers at Joey. 'I thought you said it wasn't as bad as all that.'

'Weren't that bad? You was-' the bartender begins, and Joey's quick to cut him off with a threatening glare.

'Anyway,' he says, chuckling a little guiltily, 'would you happen to remember, kind sir, what our usuals were?'

'Yeh, you ordered 'em enough times,' says the bartender, and Joey widens his eyes once more in warning before turning to Martina, helping her into her chair.

'Well, then, sweetheart, here we are again.'

She gives him a withering look. 'I'm aware of where we are, Joey. You don't need ter announce it like that.'

'Does it feel different this time?' He's not sure if that was _quite_ how he wanted to word this question, but that's how it comes out, anyway, and he hopes she realises what he's trying to ask all the same.

'You mean, because it's broad daylight and we're sober this time? It does, yeah.'

'No, no, no,' he tosses his head. The drinks have arrived and are sitting on the counter, and he beats her to taking hold of them, lifting hers with a flourishing flick of his wrist and offering it to her like a gentleman. 'I mean, to me, things feel a bit more…_certain_, this time. Last time we were here, we were both confused, weren't we?'

'I don't know if I'd say _that_, Mister Boswell. You seemed ter know what you were doin'.'

He decides not to pick up the lead and start a verbal battle, because he really, more than anything, wants this moment to be serious, not to turn into a mock-argument.

'What I mean is, we didn't know what it all meant, did we?'

'Was there even an 'it all' at that point?'

'Look, I think you may be missin' the point I'm tryin' to make here. Perhaps deliberately, but that's a conversation for another day.' He squares himself in his seat. 'I'm bein' serious. We're _together_ now- and we know we love each other. It's been three weeks since you stopped bein' stupid and stubborn, since you realised that I, Joey Boswell, was your heart's true desire, and decided to act on those deep feelings…'

'_Serious_, you said.'

Joey tones down the dramatics, does the one thing Martina's always nagging him to do. He gets straight to the point, asks the question that's been on his mind.

'Has it been worth it so far?'

Martina smiles, a gentle, warm one that melts some of the frost from her face. 'Yeah. It 'as.'

And that's all Joey needs to hear. The conversation doesn't go on- it doesn't need to, really. They've expressed what needs to be expressed, and now Joey's quite happy just to comfortably contemplate the fact that Martina seems to believe, as he does, that this relationship really is worth making a proper go of.

That she, like him, thinks this really_ could_ be fantastic.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Joey studies Martina through his glass, and, much to his amused delight, though she tries to keep her eyes moving around the room, they keep darting back towards him, more specifically towards his _mouth._

He puts his drink down and smirks. 'Well, go on, then.'

'Go on what?'

'Go on and kiss me, sweetheart! That's what!'

'And who said I was goin' to?'

'Well, you did last time we were here, didn't you? If you do it again, it'll have happened _twice_. It's practically a time-honoured tradition, isn't it, sweetheart?'

'Oh, well, if you put it like _that_,' Martina says, and, despite the fact that just a few minutes ago she was complaining about the questionable merits of doing so, she keeps with tradition and presses her lips to his.

Joey sees the bartender giving them disapproving looks. He really _will_ have to think of somewhere better to take Martina on their one-year anniversary- looks like they won't be _allowed_ back in here at this rate.

* * *

It's stormy outside, the rain pattering down, and Joey's pretty sure some of it's dripping in through a hole in Martina's ceiling. He rolls his eyes, turns onto his side, facing away from the leak and towards Martina's sleeping form. She doesn't half look beautiful when she's asleep- not that she doesn't when she's awake, especially with those huge blue eyes open and looking at him, but that's neither here nor there- and Joey wants to kiss her through the semi-darkness.

The wind whistles outside, and the air turns colder. Joey shuffles closer to her, cuddles against her, trying to steal some of her warmth. She murmurs something in her sleep, stirs, her arm snaking up and over his collarbone, coming to rest in its usual place just under his chin.

Joey frowns. Extracting his own arm from under her, he carefully takes hold of her elbow and guides it lower, so she's now wrapped around his shoulders instead. _There. That's better, isn't it, sweetheart?_

He leans over, presses a kiss to her shoulder and settles down, letting the sound of the rain lull him and the memories of these wonderful three weeks put a contented smile on his face as he starts to drift off. It's been a very happy time, despite the occasional rows, and, Joey thinks, he's truly glad she came to her senses and decided to admit she loved him. He had been a little worried, when he first realised all the extra time he was spending with her was the result of his falling in love with her, and not, as he'd originally thought, just a gesture of friendship, or an excuse to talk to someone who'd gone through similar painful relationship troubles to his own, who could sympathise. He'd been worried it wouldn't work, that it'd be wrong to invest feelings in her- after all, it's still only been two years after Roxy and Oscar, and after a love that great, which crashed and burned so spectacularly, to find himself falling in love again so soon sounds just a little desperate, just a little bit like a rebound.

But Joey knows it's not just a rebound, and it's far from desperate. He's always admired Martina, right from the day he met her, and he thought of her often when he was married to Roxy, wondering what she was doing and how her relationship with Shifty might be working out. And then, when he returned to his old way of earning money- collecting Social Security and doing sneaky little things on the side, suddenly something clicked. When he was with Roxy, despite how completely in love with her he was, he knew she was the wrong sort of person. When he looked at Martina, after being away from her for years, after having thought about her a lot during that absence, it suddenly hit him that she was- _is - _ the _right_ sort of person to love. And what's more, he always had loved her, a little. And from that moment onward, every moment he'd spent with her had made him fall further and deeper in love with her, and (though she refused to admit it) she with him.

And every day he's spending with her now is making him fall deeper in love with her, too. He loves her so very, very much.

Martina makes a little humming noise, and her arm winds its way back up to its original position. Joey sighs.

Even if she insists on doing _that_.

Sometimes she annoys him, with these habits of hers, and he _knows_ he annoys her no end, but they're really making a go of it, and he really, _really_ thinks they could have a future.

And so Joey lies there and stares at the ceiling, Martina's arm trapping his neck, rain dripping through the hole in the roof on the other side of the room, and the happy memories of the past few weeks and his hopes for the weeks, the months, the years to come gently nudging him into a contented sleep.

Yes, he thinks, he has a good feeling about this.

* * *

**And there we have fail number one of two. The second short interlude/chapter should be up within the next few days, as it's already finished and ready to go, and it will be, like this one, a reflection with some mini snatches of plot thrown in, this time from Martina's POV and much further ahead in the future.**

**Short preview: **_If there had to be some recognition of her turning forty, well, this was a nice, understated way of doing it._

** This upcoming one _actually_ manages to be shorter, too. **

**And then, following that, _finally_ I'll put up the last chapter and this fic will be done!**


	9. October the 19th: Interlude 2: 1999

**This one's just a mini-chapter, really- some Joetina fluff and a bit of minor angst that'll be explained a little more later. Spoilers for the finale and for Martina's backstory.**

**And thanks to Torie Rilistkrytcat for betaing/making sure it didn't sound too rushed.**

* * *

**October the Nineteenth**

**1999**

_If there had to be some recognition of her turning forty, well, this was a nice way of doing it._

'For you.'

Martina eyes the flowers suspiciously. 'What've you done?'

Joey laughs a little too guiltily. 'Nothing, nothing! Just wanted to give you somethin', that's all. Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman.'

He places them in her arms and Martina takes a proper look at them. They're yellow tulips. Her favourites. He really _has_ done something terrible, she thinks with a sinking heart.

'Another woman, a financial loss or an enormous Social Security scam?' she asks.

'None of the above.' He's grinning.

'Ahhh,' she says, nodding. 'A favour, then.'

'Martina, do you know what day it is?'

'Well, you're clearly intent on tellin' me, so is there any point in makin' a guess?'

'What I mean to say is, do you know what the date is?'

Actually, Martina doesn't. She hasn't been keeping track- it's very hard to stay organised, to stay on top of practical things like dates when you're running round after a strong-willed two-year-old every minute of the day. It's late October, she knows that much, and that's enough to get by on while she's preoccupied with chasing and scolding and kissing and nurturing Belle.

'It's October the nineteenth.'

Martina freezes. October the nineteenth. A day she'd rather not mark at all, apart from being another ordinary seventh of a week.

'You remembered,' she says drily. She doesn't know what she's accusing him of remembering- the fact that it's her birthday or the fact that it's the anniversary of the day she came home and found her brother missing. It doesn't matter, really. The two are linked, are one and the same in her mind.

They never acknowledge her birthday. They acknowledge Joey's- the entire Boswell _clan_ celebrates Joey's, all of them insisting on hosting such a ruckus of a party each year that she's actually been tempted to go to a hotel when the day comes around to get a bit of peace. They celebrate Belle's, and she makes an effort then, because Belle's only a little girl, but Joey generally picks out the present, and Martina just signs the card. When hers comes around, neither of them say anything. She's always a little more subdued than normal, and Joey respects that, sometimes touches her hand or her hair in passing in a symbolic gesture, but for the most part leaves her alone, and that's the extent of it.

Birthdays aren't nice things in her mind. They're tainted, tainted with one of the most painful memories of her entire life.

So the fact that Joey's acknowledging it now is too much for her to take- and it's especially too much for her to take when she's holding inappropriately cheery flowers. She puts them down on the coffee table, puts her head in her hands and cries.

'No, sweetheart, don't,' Joey begs, sitting down next to her, pulling her up into his lap, wrapping his arms as tightly round her as they'll go. It's meant to be comforting, but she feels like she's being crushed. 'I didn't want to upset you, Martina...'

'I'm not upset,' says Martina stubbornly, _stupidly_. This gets a laugh out of Joey at least, and the sound is lovely enough to cheer her up a little, to stop her snivelling.

'Oh, you're not, are you?' Joey asks, running his forefinger under her eyelashes and catching a tear, 'so what's this, then?'

He kisses the corner of her eye, strokes her face with his thumb.

'Why did you do that?' she murmurs. 'You know I can't bear ter think about it.'

'Well, maybe you need to,' he says gently, 'maybe you need to talk about it, just this once.'

She doesn't look at him, but she speaks. 'It's been twenty years, Joey. _Twenty years.'_

'I know,' he croons.

'And I still miss him as much as I did then.'

'I know,' he says again, 'sometimes I miss people too.' It's what she told him when he was brooding about Oscar, after Roxy came back just to rub it in that he'd probably never see him again. Martina wonders how much he thinks of him, now they have Belle. Probably a fair bit still, given what he just said, but it doesn't bother her as much as she thought it would. She knows he adores their girl, that she won't ever be second to Oscar. She lets it drop, goes back to her problem.

'Roger was the only person who really loved me,' she says. She's told him this a hundred times, but he's not bothered. He'll let her come out with it again. 'And I don't think I can ever forgive him for going the way he did, fer abandonin' me like that.'

'He might have been the only person who loved you, in those days,' Joey says, brushing her hair off her shoulders, kissing her forehead and her cheeks and her mouth, 'but you've got me now, and you've got Belle, and _we_ love you. I know it's not as if we can replace him, or anything, but I'm just _saying_…'

'I know,' she sighs. 'I know you do.' She knows, and she knows Joey means well, but she still aches inside when she thinks about today. She's barely even registered the fact that it's her fortieth, that that's supposed to be significant- she's been far too caught up in the fact that it's the twentieth anniversary of the day she first stopped trusting people. But what he's saying is true. She's got Joey- she's got someone who truly cares, who she can confide in, and because of him she's got her daughter, she's got Belle. No matter whom she's lost, she's got two wonderful people in her life who'll never abandon her.

'And I know you don't want to remember what happened with Roger, sweetheart, and I know you don't want to celebrate your birthday, but I wanted to give you something today, sweetheart, if only this once. I wanted to do somethin' to mark me gratitude at the fact that it was exactly forty years ago God put you on this earth.'

Martina's touched by the sentiment- and that's saying something. Joey showers her in declarations of love nearly every day, and though she knows he means every one of them, this one's different somehow, more sincere than most.

'Yeah,' she breathes, 'I suppose it was.' She's calming rapidly, and though the hurt's still there, it's nearly completely overshadowed by the love she feels for Joey at this moment. She finds she can't be annoyed at him at all about it.

'And where would I be now if He hadn't, eh?'

'In gaol fer fraud?' she teases.

'And I thought it was your personal mission to put me there- aren't you out to get me, after all?'

'Oh, I am, Mister Boswell, I am. I just 'aven't gotten round to it- but I 'ave found out about most o' yer schemes, one way or another…' she trails off. 'Maybe I've gone soft…gotten lax.'

'You? _Never._ You're still the same beautiful, _amazing_, frosty-faced DHSS lady you always were,' she laughs, and he kisses her. 'And I _love you._'

Martina's moved beyond tears. She kisses him back, slow and soft, trying to express her gratitude.

'And I love you, you ridiculous man,' she mutters, 'and I know you were just tryin' ter show you appreciate me- and I love you fer _that_ as well.'

'Exactly, sweetheart. It was just a mark of appreciation. Nothin' to get worked up about.'

She hums, settles her head against his shoulder, pondering the flowers on the coffee table. She _will_ keep them, she decides. She's still not entirely happy about her birthday being brought up, but Joey's intentions are good, and she knows that, even after five years of being together, four years of marriage, his biggest worry is that she doesn't trust him or doesn't believe he truly loves her. So, yes, she'll keep them, as a demonstration of her own love and for Joey, to prove that she really _does_ believe him when he says that while others might have left her in the past, he never will.

'Oh, and, er…I may have actually done something, like you said… just somethin' _little_…' Joey adds, almost as an afterthought.

Martina sighs heavily. _Why didn't I see that coming?_

She shifts herself off his lap, turns so she's looking sternly upon him. 'Oh, yeah?'

'Just a tiny, miniscule thing, really…'

'What have you done?' she demands, preparing herself for the inevitable waffle about how important whatever money it is he's embezzled is to his family- both this one and the one on Kelsall Street.

'I've invited Adrian 'round for dinner. And the kids. Irenee's out of town.'

Martina lets out an enormous sigh of relief, and then rounds on him.

'Oh, is _that all?_ I was set ter watch you get arrested! I was mentally pickin' out what dress I was gonna wear to yer court hearin', when you got done for defraudin' the Social Security,' she teases.

Joey chuckles. 'Ah, _but_, even if I _had_ done somethin' truly terrible, as you were so quick to assume, to get as far as a court hearing, I would have to get caught.' He winks.

'It 'appened once, it could 'appen again…'

'Oh, don't you fret, sweetheart. My plans are a lot more ingenious these days. I've been _meticulous_ in hidin' me assets- the tax man could go over my incomings and outgoings with a fine-toothed comb and not be able to find a flaw.'

'And you're tellin' me this, knowin' I'm lookin' for an excuse to bring you down?'

'Oh, you knew anyway. You just said, didn't you, that you knew about me schemes.'

She smirks, leans over and rests her forehead against his. 'Oh, I do, I do. Don't _you_ fret, Mister Boswell, I'm still workin' on a plan to bring you down.'

'That's the Martina I know and love.' He gives her a quick kiss, and hugs her again, squeezing her. It doesn't feel crushing this time, though, and she's happy to return it, to bask gratefully in Joey's affection.

The scuffle of children's feet interrupts them, and they're able to rearrange themselves into a much less intimate position on the sofa before Adrian enters the room, followed by his lads and Annabelle, who's being carried by Davey. Though three years apart, the two of them are as close as can be- constantly giggling and plotting little devious things in their own childish way (or rather, Belle plots and Davey goes along with it, but seeing as she's only two and never comes up with anything worse than conning their parents out of an extra biscuit at tea-time, Martina doesn't feel it's worth telling them off about).

'Greetings!' Joey says, getting up to address his brother. 'I see Belle let you in, then.'

'She's been a very gracious hostess,' Adrian says, with a patronising smile in Belle's direction.

He clasps Joey's hand and shakes it vigorously, as he tends to do, and gives Martina a wary little wave. She waves back, offers him a _hello_ and waits 'til he's not looking at her before rolling her eyes. She's been with Joey for five years now, and Adrian _still_ hasn't gotten over being frightened of her. Not that she can say she minds. It's very entertaining, watching him tiptoe around her as if on eggshells.

'Mammy, look!' Belle bleats from across the room, demanding her attention. She nudges Davey, and he swings her around so she flies outwards. 'See!'

Martina bites her lip. 'Careful with her, love,' she reprimands Davey, 'she's only little- I won't be impressed if you break 'er bones.'

'It's _fun_,' Annabelle insists, as if this makes mildly risky things okay, but she hops down from her cousin's arms all the same- something's caught her eye. She bounces over to the coffee table, puts a hand on the flowers.

'Pretty!'

'They _are_ lovely, aren't they?' Adrian dares to say. 'You know, I was thinking of doing a still life with flowers the other day- I might paint some like this.' This last comment is more to himself than to the others, and he stands there for a while, musing before snapping out of his artistic daydream and looking at Joey once more. 'What's the occasion?'

Joey's eyes flicker to Martina. She gives him a minute shake of her head. It's one thing for her and her husband to quietly discuss the significance of today, but she doesn't want to share it with anyone else.

Joey gives her a small smile which says he understands, turns back to Adrian.

'_Well_, you know how it is,' he says, 'you give poems to Irenee. Seein' as I've never been gifted in that area…'

'I wouldn't be too sure you're not, luv,' Martina interjects, 'look at the soliloquies you come out with down the Social Security…'

'_Anyway,_' Joey finishes, ignoring her, 'I choose to show my love and dedication in other ways, like spending great amounts of money on her.'

'Oh, yes, well, you _are_ good at spendin' money, I'll give you that, Joey,' says Adrian, and Martina laughs.

'Yeah, he's good at _that_ all right. Ask 'im to show yer the new gold watch 'e bought last week.'

'Ah, but you must admit, it _is_ a fine piece of work. I would've been mad _not_ to purchase it,' Joey says, and then the conversation drifts toward Joey's possessions and then the buying-and-selling game, and the reasoning behind the flowers is forgotten.

They spend a pleasant evening chatting, Adrian even working up the nerve to talk directly to Martina a few times, rather than through Joey, the kids nattering away, Annabelle and Davey sitting beside each other and conspiring rather than eating their dinner, and the yellow tulips sit in a vase in the middle of the table all the while.

And every so often, when everyone else is absorbed in their various conversations, Martina glances up at them and indulges in a private smile.

They still don't acknowledge her birthday when it comes round- that's the only time they mention it, and it's such a short conversation, over and done with so quickly that it's barely an acknowledgement at all, really. But Martina keeps the flowers until they're well and truly dead, and decides that really, if there had to be some recognition of her turning forty, well, they were a nice, understated way of doing it.

And they were a _very _nice, understated way of reminding her that she's always had, and always will have someone who cares.

Someone who'll always make her happy.

* * *

**Only short, only fail. Just really a little scene more than an actual plot.**

**I really love Belle and Davey. I may or may not *guilty smile* have a massive headcanon about them and their friendship. I may end up writing a fic about it later, although that may be taking this universe a bit too far, considering I have the backstory still to do...**

**Anyhow, the end is nigh. The finale should be up at the end of the week. Beware, though, it is _enormous._ There's a lot to explain, though, and a fair few feelings and moments of confusion to work through, so hopefully it'll be worth it.**

**Preview: **_Love only leads to loss. She's vowed never to fall in it again, never to let herself make another Shifty-type mistake. But it's too late. She already has._


	10. On the edge of the precipice: 1994

**Seeing as this is the last chapter I may as well do a disclaimer and say I don't own Bread. Because I don't. **

**This one is very, very long, but I've cut it down all I can. It has to show quite a messy and complicated process of Martina falling in love with Joey, so there are a few dithers and a few self-contradictions on her part and all those sorts of things.**

**Some warnings: there are some implied, er, _goings-on_, but nothing bad enough to warrant an M-rating, I don't think. Also, this chapter includes references to Series 5, episode 4 (the non-DVD series 5) and Series 2 Episode 3 among other episodes, as well as allusions to the other chapters (or rather, the chapters that were set after this one allude to it, and it alludes to the ones set before it).**

**And there's sap. Lots of sap. Parts of this chapter are very clichéd, and so full of sap you could serve them with pancakes.**

**Oh, yeah, and with the description of Joey, I am imagining him to look a bit like Peter Howitt in Coasting, only with more leather and less garish shirts.**

* * *

**On the edge of the precipice**

** Early 1994**

_Love only leads to loss. She's vowed never to fall in it again, never to let herself make another Shifty-type mistake. But it's too late. She already has._

_~X~X_

Martina's made a firm decision. Never, ever, _ever_, under any circumstances, let anyone play her for a fool again.

She's picked herself up quite neatly following her split with Shifty. True, there were the phone calls, the arguments about why it was all happening, the anger, but that seems to have evened out a bit more now. She lives in perhaps the tiniest flat to ever have existed, but it's hers. No-one has ever shared it, no-one ever will, and there aren't and will never be any painful memories attached to it. It's a longer walk to work, but it's a price worth paying for her freedom to live a peaceful life on her own.

She's alone but that's the way she likes it. Nice and safe. Nice and boring. She's regained some measure of control over herself, and though life hasn't improved much- still the same monotony it always was- she's reasonably…well, maybe 'content' isn't the right word. That implies some degree of happiness, and Martina's never happy. Reasonably secure in what she's got, anyway. It'll do.

Without the stress of Shifty, her life trundles along as it should, day after day on the same treadmill, no changes, no surprises. It's still not the great, glittering life others aspire to, still more of an existence than anything else, but it's better than the one she had before, so she doesn't complain. The worst that happens to her now is a run-in with a particularly nasty client. And she's dealt with so many of those before that it's nothing she can't handle. She devotes herself entirely to her job, and makes the most she can out of it.

She has resolved to a) do as well at her job as she possibly can, b) never be so imbecilic as to fall for anyone's tricks again and c) never fall in love again. This one is especially important, she reminds herself. Because it's love that makes her foolish and blind, and it's what drives her to violate a) and b). It's what made her keep sticking up for her brother, even when she knew he was running afoul of the law. It's what made her keep taking Shifty back, and she's never going through something like that again. She's going to stick with her plan, no matter what. Strong feelings get in the way of her and the peaceful life she wants so badly to maintain.

And she's going quite well with all three subclauses of this resolution, until someone who's long been gone from her life walks right back into it.

She's sitting behind her desk in the DHSS- or the DSS, as it's now called, though she and indeed countless others can't shake off the old title- and going through each of the papers in her in-tray carefully, ensuring not a single detail is overlooked. No one is ever going to slip through the cracks of the system again- not on her watch. Every escape through a loophole will be carefully investigated; she'll personally make sure of that. She means business now.

Martina is pleased with the progress she's made, is considering treating herself to an early night, to leaving the rest for tomorrow, when, with the sweep of a coat, someone all-too-familiar strides in and takes a seat in front of her counter.

No, it can't be.

He opens his mouth to speak.

It can't be. It isn't. No. _No._

'Greetings!'

But it is. It's Joey Boswell.

She hasn't seen him for a while- not since he'd married, his organic business had taken off and he'd been far more interested in his growing family than in swindling more benefits and cancelled his allowance, much to her enormous shock. It's been a few years at least, and she barely recognises him now. He's cultivated a slightly more modern, more mature style, blonde hair gone dark, a long leather coat in a sleeker cut than the jackets of old. He looks even more like the leader of an organised crime syndicate now than he did back in the day. Everything in life has changed, even her old adversary.

But then he grins at her, that familiar, boyish, cheeky smile, and no, she thinks, he hasn't changed at all.

'You look different,' she observes.

'So do you. More…' he makes a shape with his hands, '_severe.'_

It's true, he's not the only one who's had a change of image. Martina's hair is pulled strictly back from her face, shoulder pads so sharp they're almost aggressive- which is what she'd wanted. She's not going to let anyone push her around ever again, and she wants to give that impression straight away. Not only that, her face has hardened, she thinks. She looks at herself some days and can barely recall what a genuine smile used to look like on it.

'What happened to that sweet girl who used to shut her eyes and play guess-who's-sittin'-in-the-chair-in-front-o'-me?'

'I think yer memory's not what it was, Mister Boswell,' she leans forward, hitting him with her best evil smirk. 'I was never sweet.'

'I beg to differ, sunshine. It was quite adorable, the way you thought you were out to get me…'

'_Thought_ I was?'

'You never caught me, did you?'

'Didn't have to in the end. The tax man did it for me.'

'Ah, yes,' Joey says.

'That was a good day fer me.'

'Because you got your revenge, or because you got a free pizza out of it?'

She snorts in spite of herself. That part had slipped her memory.

'Well, that too. I'm not gonna complain if one of me clients decides to feed me- even if it _was_ a grovel.' Martina laughs dryly as she remembers.

'It worked, didn't it? You gave me the form.'

'Believe it or not, that wasn't the reason.'

'No?'

'Something along the lines of red tape, if memory serves me correctly.'

'If that's what you want to believe.' He leans back in his chair, tilting it back onto two legs. Martina should probably tell him off for that- it's dangerous- but the idea of him falling is an appealing one, so she says nothing and hopes the chair will topple. 'But personally, I think it had more to do with me brilliant skills of persuasion.'

'If that's what you want to believe,' she echoes him.

'How are you, these days, dear lady?' he changes the subject, voice chipper and bright. 'You still with Shifty?'

She flinches. The use of the name still stings.

'No.'

'Ah,' says Joey, nodding. 'His nickin' things get too much for you?'

She purses her lips. 'I'd rather not talk about it.' _Especially with you of all people._

Joey holds up his hands. 'Meant no offense, sweetheart. I understand- I, er,' a hitch of breath, 'I recently lost my wife.'

'Oh,' Martina says, slightly embarrassed. 'I'm so sorry.'

'No, no,' Joey chuckles, and she remembers the sound well. It takes her back to another place and time. 'I didn't mean it like _that_, no, she's not _dead!_ We got a divorce about two years ago.'

'I see.' This is getting awkward, fast.

'That's one of the reasons I'm here, actually,' that smile again, that _I'm about to lead up to a life-changing speech_ smile. She's quite forgotten all these different Joey Boswell expressions- at one point she'd known them by heart, and to see them now brings back to her very vividly the time when he'd first started coming to the DHSS to claim, when they'd both been younger and flirtatious and always waging a little battle with one another. How long ago must that be now? Ten years? A long time, anyway. It makes her feel tired.

'Alimony doesn't just pay itself, you know,' Mister Boswell goes on.

She squares her shoulders. 'What happened to your successful business?'

'Not so successful after all, Martina. I decided, in one of my bouts of great wisdom, to return to what I could do best. And answer me this- what's the point in toilin' away day after day for me pennies…' he reaches out, touches her face, 'when I can get such lovely service here?'

'You 'aven't grown up at all, have you? You're just as immature as you were a decade ago. Always expecting that havin' everything handed to you on a plate is your natural right…'

'There's no law against it, is there?'

'Shirking any form of responsibility…'

'Now just a minute there, sweetheart. Do kindly remember I have a large and somewhat strugglin' family to take care of.'

'Ah, yes.' She smacks herself in the head. 'The _family._ How silly of me to have forgotten. The be-all and the end-all of the universe.'

'I'm just _sayin'_, takin' care of 'em is a responsibility…'

'We're not talkin' about children 'ere, Mister Boswell. Your family are all adults, and all as crafty as you are. Well,' she rethinks this, 'most of them.' That Billy isn't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

'They're all perfectly capable of takin' care of themselves. Yer family isn't a responsibility, it's an excuse for the lot of you never to have to _take_ any responsibility. You all cling together in a little commune, gatherin' together all your money into a big pile and usin' your shared genetics as an excuse to bleed the country dry.'

'What you see as stayin' together for an excuse is merely…'

'Unity?' the word rolls off her tongue so easily, and it almost scares her that she can dive straight back into a skirmish of old like no time has passed at all.

'Precisely.'

And then it's the usual routine: pick up form, toss onto counter, provide pen. _Fill that in._ Pen is returned and replaced with musical gold one. Tune plays. A great, big, flowing, show-offy signature. All clockwork. It must be like- what's the expression?- riding a bicycle. Not that Martina ever learned to do that, but she gets the general idea of the saying. You never really forget something that runs so smoothly, so simply.

Joey hands the form back to her, beaming. 'Aren't you glad I'm back?'

'No. I'm mortified.'

Another laugh. 'That's the spirit.' And he gets up and goes, and his walk is the same, the noise the heels of his expensive shoes make on the floor, it's all familiar.

'Oh,' he turns back with an afterthought, 'if I might just make a suggestion, sweetheart?'

She sighs. 'Go on.'

Joey reaches forward and around her head. She stares at him, unsure what he's up to. He pulls the clasp from her hair and it all falls loose.

'Better,' he says, fanning it out around her shoulders. 'Go back to wearin' your hair the way you used to. Suits you better.'

With a wink and a click of his tongue he's gone, and Martina fumes about the whole thing. The last thing she needs now is for Joey Boswell to walk back into her life, just when she's starting to change its direction, trying to make something of it for once. It's not fair- just as she seems to be making some sort of progress, circumstances beyond her control force her to take a step backward. It seems like she's going to be trapped back in the same old routine again, falling back into the Boswell banter that plagued her days.

She's not happy he's back. Not even in the slightest.

But from then on she wears her hair down.

* * *

She sees him quite a lot after that. He returns to the Social Security building with alarming regularity, just as he used to, and though the reasons for his claims have changed, he employs the same tricks, ices his words with the same thick layer of purple prose, wears the same obnoxious smile. And she gets right back into the flow of things, engaging in the verbal battles of the olden days, enjoying the fight, enjoying the thrill of the mental spar and the immense satisfaction that comes from scoring a point.

Her job becomes a bit more interesting again. Interesting, and about a hundred times more difficult, because she finds herself constantly researching ways to catch him out, constantly trying to find flaws in his cleverly crafted stories. She's finding she likes the challenge, though. Everyone else's tricks were too quickly unearthed- this gives her a bit more to do, which fits well with her resolution to throw herself into her work.

Everything goes along as it should.

But something odd is happening, because this new, improved Joey Boswell, although just as arrogant as he always was, is having a different effect on Martina to what she'd expected.

She can't explain it. It's little things, things she thinks she's taking no notice of, but then reacts to without thinking.

He compliments her on the way her light blue shirt 'brings out her beautiful eyes'. It's strategic, meant to fluster her, flatter her so she'll give him what he wants, and she knows this full well.

She buys another like it.

She brings her old tape recorder in, and in a throwback to old times, plays a mournful dirge on it while he prattles on. He names the composer and the piece, then, with a wink suggests a more suitable song, one he likes more.

She goes out and finds the tape of it.

Martina chalks it up to more than her fair share of confusion- still trying to claw her way back from her split with Shifty, and pleased to have something more interesting to do where her job is concerned. Because Joey Boswell _does_ count as 'work', as part of her job, she decides, and so any time or money or effort spent on his behalf can be considered as a business expense.

And so it all rolls along, everything going swimmingly.

Until she encounters him outside the DSS.

And then somehow, it all starts making sense and at the same time crumbles into tiny pieces.

* * *

She's in the pub at the time. Martina doesn't drink a lot, as a rule- after observing what whiskey did to her brother, the way he spiralled, the trouble he landed in, now officially wanted for non-payment of enormous debts among other things- she generally steers clear of it, apart from the odd glass now and again.

But tonight's just one of those nights- she'd been stressed and tired and walking home past a cosy-looking tavern and now here she is with a glass of white wine warming in her hand, her head resting on her arm as she sits at the bar, absently watching and listening to everything going on around her.

She thinks she might just doze off now, for a while. Nobody'll be bothered if she does, and she's really not up to dragging herself off home just yet.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, warm and heavy. She jumps.

'Long day?'

She shudders with relief at the sound of his voice.

'Mister Boswell,' she murmurs, slowly raising her head from her arm.

'Greetings!' Joey says, and that charming smile comes out. 'And what brings a lovely lady such as yourself to a place like this?'

'The need ter escape from the likes o' you,' she opens immediately with a quip. It's as if a sign's gone off in her brain- _Boswell in sight. Let battle commence._

'Ah, but I am inescapable, sunshine. Inescapable.'

He takes a seat on the stool beside her.

'Oh, I've noticed _that_ much, Mister Boswell. I thought for a while there I was never gonna see yer face in the Social Security buildin' again. You lulled me into a false sense o' security, and then you were back fer another round o' scroungin'. I'm never gonna get rid o' you, am I?'

'Not unless you dump me body in the river, sweetheart.' Joey gives her an enormous smile, complete with flashing molars.

'Don't tempt me.'

'You wouldn't,' he teases. 'You're really quite fond of me, aren't you?'

'And _what_ would give yer that impression?'

'I am an extremely perceptive man, you know.'

'Oh, yeah? I'd be more inclined to say extremely self-important. You'd love ter think the entire world was smitten with you, wouldn't yer?'

Joey gives her a cheeky look and she immediately regrets whatever she might have said to make him do so.

'I didn't say _smitten_. I said _fond_. Bit of a Freudian slip there, was it?'

Martina clenches her teeth. '_Most certainly not._'

Joey just laughs at her, and then reaches over, taking the drink from her hand and examining the contents.

'Furnish the lady with another of the same,' he tells the bartender cheerily, sliding her half-empty glass back over the bar. Martina gapes.

'Well,' he grins, 'it's not every day an attractive woman admits they fancy you, is it? I think that warrants me buyin' you a drink.'

'I am _not_ smitten with you,' Martina growls.

Joey just holds out the glass to her.

'No.'

'Oh, go on. I got it just for you.'

'Drink it yerself. I didn't ask fer it.'

'Martina, _sweetheart_, I was just messin' with you. I wasn't really sayin' I thought you were smitten- it's just a friendly drink.'

Martina exhales, accepts it from him, though she's still glaring at him.

She puts it to her lips.

'Unless you yourself want to admit that you _are_ in fact totally head over heels.'

She puts the glass down with a clunk. 'That's it. I'm off.'

'Oh, _stay_, sweetheart, please,' he coaxes, 'I was lookin' forward to talkin' to you.'

'Why?' she raises an eyebrow but she settles herself back into her seat and picks up her glass again anyway. 'Hopin' to get me on me own so you can somehow convince me to give yer more benefits?'

'Among other things,' Joey jests. 'But we never talk, do we, sweetheart? Apart from about money, that is.'

'Well, perhaps there's a _reason_ for that. Seein' as 'ow I work in an establishment which supplies you with money, and you can think o' precious little else.'

'You wound me when you say things like that, sweetheart. I think of other things besides money.'

'Oh, yeah? Such as? Leather gear? Gold watches?' the little bit of alcohol she's had makes her summon enough nerve to take hold of his left wrist, turn it up, but there's no Cartier watch there anymore. Martina blinks. The Joey Boswell she knows would never appear in public without being blinged-up first.

She gives him a questioning look. Joey pulls his arm back, pushing his sleeve down.

'Lost it, did you?'

'I, er,' Joey clears his throat, clearly ashamed, 'I sold it.'

Martina's taken aback. The Joey Boswell she knows would never sell his possessions, either. That's just madness. Even when he's been in enormous debt he hasn't resorted to that- even when he owed twenty thousand pounds he came down to scrounge, asked for the Enterprise Allowance Scheme, convinced his father to sell his flat rather than get rid of his finery.

Joey catches her befuddled look. 'Desperate times, Martina. Desperate times.'

Martina swallows more of her wine, deciding she's feeling brave. 'Oh, yeah? What made yer so desperate? Couldn't the family club together this time?'

Something strange comes over the man's face, and it occurs to Martina that she may have gone too far.

'Oh, they did club together in the end. Just in the nick o' time- saved me from havin' to sell me Jag. I'd already got rid of nearly everythin' else, though.'

'Why?' She shouldn't be asking. It's nothing to do with her. But she's so used to questioning everything he says and does- it's automatic. 'It'd 'ave ter take an apocalypse- or a total financial collapse-to make you think about sellin' yer Jag.'

'Oh, it was, sweetheart. It was. Well,' he shrugs. 'Close enough, anyway. It was when me divorce was comin' through, and I was runnin out o' money for the solicitor's bills…'

'Tryin' ter win the house, were you?' Really, she should quit while she's ahead. She knows she's making him uncomfortable, but for some reason she presses on anyway. Joey swigs some of his own drink and squares his shoulders.

'Not-the house, no. But there was a kid…'

'Oh. I see.'

'He wasn't my actual son- not by birth or anythin'. He was hers from a previous…well, anyway, didn't make any difference to me. I still loved him, you know.'

Martina wonders why he's telling her all this. They're not confidantes in any way shape or form- they're not even _friends_. They're enemies. But he wants to tell her, and she wants to hear.

She'll use it against him later, she resolves. When she's more in the mood to.

'I see.'

'And she wouldn't let me see 'im- flat-out refused.'

'That must've hurt.'

'It did, yeah.' He's silent and pensive, swirling his finger around in the top of his glass.

Martina finishes the dregs of her wine, and Joey notices, takes her empty glass and orders another one.

'Eh- stop it! I don't need any _more_!'

Joey just winks, passes the new beverage to her. 'Don't sweat, sunshine. Tab's on me.'

Martina rolls her eyes. Joey Boswell doesn't half fancy himself a gentleman, sometimes. It's incredibly obnoxious, pretentious…and she smiles at it.

He buys himself a fresh one too, raises his glass to her.

Martina clinks with him without thinking, and there's a moment when their eyes lock, and she sees something strange pass through his. She feels herself shiver, and frantically tries to remember her place in the conversation.

'So did you win, then?'

Joey blinks. 'I'm sorry, sweetheart?'

'The case,' she clarifies, 'did you win?'

Joey falls silent, and that's answer enough.

'Oh. I'm sorry.'

'Well,' he makes an attempt to seem normal, happy, 'no use cryin' over it, hey? And like you said, the fam-i-ly clubbed together to help me with the solicitors' bills. And I've started refilling my inventory with lovely things, now I've come back to the Social Security, with your lovely service…'

'Don't start…' she warns.

He tosses his head, goes back to his drink.

Martina sits for a while, tries to leave the bait, but in the end, temptation proves too much. '_And_ o' course, all the little lucrative schemes you've got on the side, ter supplement yer Social Security.'

Joey waggles his eyebrows but doesn't pass comment, a sort of indirect admission. She widens her eyes at him, and he laughs. 'I didn't say anythin', sweetheart. You've got no evidence to convict.'

And she winds up laughing too.

'What about Shifty, then?' he inquires once they've settled down.

The question sets Martina's teeth on edge. She doesn't want to answer, but he's just spilled his guts out, and she feels she owes him somehow.

He senses she's uncomfortable, presses yet another new glass into her hand. 'Here. For Dutch courage.'

She swallows it gratefully, finishing off the entire thing in one go, and begins to relate the crashing-and-burning of their relationship, the woes, the constant stealing and affairs, the way it got to a point where she was either going to leave or die in her own misery, and she chose to leave. He listens to it all with a solemn face.

It's very odd, the fact that here she is, with her worst enemy in all the world, chatting away as if they're old friends, and accepting drinks from him as if she actually trusts him, as if it's perfectly acceptable to be drinking with someone like him. And they're _telling_ each other things- and not just _things_ things, but personal things. Heartfelt things. The sort of things you don't just blab out to random acquaintances. They must both have drunk more than they should, to be doing this. Perhaps, Martina thinks, it's high time this stopped.

But instead, she finds her curiosity gnawing at her, and a question spills off her tongue, the wine helping it along. While she's got him here, outside a work context, she might as well make the most of it.

'Why don't your family talk ter Shifty anymore?'

'_Ah_,' Joey raises one finger. 'That.'

'_That_,' Martina repeats.

'Well, it's a little hard to say…'

'If it involves badmouthin' 'im, you don't need ter worry,' she tells him. 'As I said, I'm not seein' 'im anymore.'

'Well,' Joey says again, tenting his fingers, 'it was a few years ago- prob'ly what? Three now? Anyway, he, er, he…got into a bit o' debt…'

'I've noticed he tends ter do that.'

'Now, if he'd just told us we'd 'ave helped him out- I mean, he's fam-i-ly. We stick together. But he didn't. Instead he got into our savings- mine, me Mam's, me Dad's, even Grandad's…got hold of about three thousand quid in total. Made off with it.'

'Ah.'

'And if he'd only just _asked_, we wouldn't have begrudged him it- what made it worse was that we confronted him with it, and he denied it. And we all knew he'd done it. Grandad saw him and all- he was devastated. Shifty was always his favourite. Well, you can imagine, trustin' him after that…

Martina nods. Makes sense. She's not sure she should fully believe Joey's side of it- being, as he is, Joey Boswell, but it's so utterly _Shifty_, so utterly believable that she can't help but take his word for it.

'I know the feelin', yeah. I couldn't trust 'im either. That's why I got out.'

'How'd you finally manage it, then? It took a lot of effort for us to bar 'im from the house. He kept springin' back like a yo-yo.'

She snickers at the analogy, because it's true, so very true, and she realises at the same monent that she's leaving the sober state behind, and that yet _another_ pair of fresh drinks have appeared on the counter for them.

'It was 'ard,' she says, because it was, and because she's finding it hard to remember big words all of a sudden. 'I walked out in the end. Found meself a new flat. And boy did 'e kick up a fuss.'

'Plead with you to come back, did he?'

'In between the shoutin'. He was really quite surprised, you know, when he realised all me clothes were gone from the wardrobe.'

A chortle. 'I wish I'd been there.'

'Hmm.' Martina's feeling just the tiniest bit woozy. 'He really didn't wanna let go. It was…_hard_,' she wishes she had some synonyms on hand, 'to get over.'

'But you did.'

'Suppose.' There's a pause, and Martina concentrates on looking at her reflection in her wine.

'It's admirable, that,' Joey says out of the blue. She turns to look at him full on.

'What is?'

'The way you can carry on. The fact that you had the strength to do that, and to pick yourself up the way you have.'

Martina scoffs- he doesn't know what he's saying. He can see her mask, that's all. She doesn't feel strong, not a bit of it, and she expresses this sentiment to him.

'Oh, but you are, sweetheart, even if you can't see it. I mean, look at the way you go on down the DHSS.'

'DSS,' Martina corrects, but he takes no notice. No-one does.

'Those bastards are always puttin' you down, and you rise above it, never let it get to you…'

She rolls her eyes.

'I've always admired you for that, you know.' He's looking straight into her eyes as he says this, the most serious expression she thinks she's ever seen him wear adorning his face. It's a bit unnerving. She takes another swig of her drink.

'_Well_,' she says, feeling a warm buzz as the liquor kicks in, 'I've always admired _you_ for…' She pauses, puts one finger on her lips. She can't think of anything.

'For my charm? For my amazin' handsomeness? For my great, _unique_ ability to…'

'No, no. No, no.' She moves the finger from her lips to his. 'Nothin' like that.'

He grins. 'For what, then?'

She downs the rest of her glass, hums and tries to concentrate. What _does_ she admire him for? Is there even anything? She needs to say something, it's rude not to finish the thought, but how can she concentrate at all, she thinks, when she's feeling unexplainably dizzy? _Too much wine. Far too much wine. How many now? Four? Five? Six?_ She can't normally handle more than two.

'Your…your…_gall_,' Martina finishes with relish.

He raises his eyebrows in amusement. 'My gall, you say? What's that when it's at home?'

'Don't 'ave a filthy mind,' she says reproachfully, wondering why the sentence sounds so unwieldy, 'I mean yer _nerve_. You've got a lot o' that.'

'So you're sayin' I'm brave?'

'No, I'm sayin' you've got _nerve_.'

'Yeah,' he finishes off his beverage, shoves the glass aside, leans in closer, 'but what does that_ mean, _exactly?'

'It _means_,' she leans in close as well, smirking, 'that you somehow 'ave the guts ter come out with all that _rubbish_ in front o' me, and you _dare_ think you'll get away with it.' Martina's aiming for a cutting remark, but it doesn't sound as sharp as she'd have liked, because she's slurring her words slightly.

He chuckles at her. 'You're gettin' _tipsy_.'

As he says this, he leans his elbow back, intending to rest it on the counter, misses and nearly falls off the stool. The timing is perfect, and Martina lets a laugh escape her.

'So are _you_.'

'Yeah,' Joey says, 'but I can handle it.'

'And who says I can't?'

'You do,' says Joey, his face suddenly serious again. 'With your eyes. You want to do somethin' reckless, sweetheart- I can see it written all over your face.'

'And what, pray tell, do I wanna do that's so reckless? I'm not reckless! I'm _un…reckless! _Very, very… un-reckless.'

'Are you just? Then why do you want to kiss me?'

Martina's eyes widen. Where did that even come from?

'I _don't_ want ter kiss you! Mister Boswell! How dare you insin…insin…'

_Insinuate_ is on the tip of her tongue, but she can't get past the second syllable. And, without fully realising what she's doing, she fairly collapses into him and crashes her mouth against his.

She shouldn't be doing this. She realises this instantly, but she can't stop, doesn't want to, because it's been so long since Shifty, and there hasn't been anyone since, and…

Joey lets her do it, kisses back with a burning intensity and this is so wrong, but it's so good, she thinks maybe someone's poured methylated spirits down her veins and struck a match, because she's burning but without being damaged, but no it's so wrong, and it's Joey Boswell, and just… ugh, _everything…_

It's Joey who stops, and she huffs when he does, because despite the fact she _knows_ it was wrong, she was really enjoying it.

'I told you you wanted to, didn't I?'

Martina can't remember what words are, let alone how to use them. He draws back, laughs at her expression, and she wonders what she looks like to him right now. She's certainly flustered, she knows that much, and there are stars and little Joey Boswells dancing round her head like in a cartoon.

'But the thing is, Martina,' he's moved back in, his breath tickles the skin on her neck, and she shudders, her shoulder coming up automatically, because she's just a little bit ticklish, 'if you don't stop me now, I'd quite like to kiss you again. And I will.'

She should stop him. She knows she should stop him. She should ask him to desist, remind him just who he is, just who _she_ is. But she doesn't want to. Because the instant he mentions kissing her again her lips begin to tingle.

'Not in 'ere,' she whispers, the wine guiding her on. 'Outside.'

Joey's wallet materialises from nowhere, and he crams a great wad of pound notes into the surprised bartender's fist before springing from his seat, taking her hand and pulling her towards the door.

She runs with him willingly, wondering but not caring why all this is so easy to do, noticing, as Joey pulls the door marked 'push' and cackles loudly at his mistake, that people are staring.

They stumble out onto the pavement outside, and the night air is a refreshing cold sting against her flushed skin.

She leans heavily against him, and he against her, and then they both realise they're going to fall over if they do this, and they lean against the wall instead. They're facing each other, and Joey's arm is around her, his hand on the small of her back.

'_Mister_ Boswell,' she says, '_Joey…' _

It's sort of funny calling him by his first name, and she giggles drunkenly, and then she can't remember what she was going to say, because he's pulling her in and kissing her again and all coherent thought becomes erased from her brain.

* * *

When Martina wakes up, two things are wrong. For one, she has a splitting headache. And for the other, Joey Boswell is sitting on her dressing table tying up his shoes.

She lies there listlessly for a moment, watching him through a haze of semi-conscious fascination. He bites his tongue while he's doing the knots, flexes his foot in front of him when he's done, and the little habits interest her still half-asleep mind. He looks nice in the morning light. It catches on his hair, highlights the sandy bits in the brown, and ah yes, she thinks, it looks much better natural than when it was almost white-blond.

And then her brain starts to kick in.

_Hang on a minute here._

Joey Boswell's inside her house. That's not normal. Last night comes back to her in shreds and snippets, filling her with horror as she remembers how drunk she got.

Her eyes widen. She struggles into a sitting position, ignoring the hammers that seem to be attacking her head and the almost overwhelming nausea that comes on as she moves, because she's got a crisis far more important than that to deal with here.

He notices her looking at him.

'Greetings!' He's smiling at her- _no, don't you smile at me, Joey Boswell. You shouldn't be here._ 'Hung over? I know I am.'

Two thoughts come at once. How can he be so cheery if he feels even slightly like she does now? And how can he be so blithe, given everything that's just happened? Doesn't he have the decency to feel remorseful, to even try to make excuses for himself?

But all she says is 'yeah.'

'Poor dear girl.' He crosses the room, leans over the bed and kisses her forehead twice, then her lips once. And again she wants to reprimand him, to demand some sort of explanation for whatever it was that went on between them, to tell him to get out. And again she doesn't.

'D'you want me to find you some aspirin?'

'No. I'll find it meself later.'

'Oh, okay,' he says.

An awkward silence descends.

'Well, then,' Joey wrings his hands.

'Yeah,' says Martina.

'I'd better be headin' off then,' he tells her. 'D'you want me to give you a lift to work?'

'No,' Martina says.

'Oh. Okay,' he says.

And leaves.

* * *

They're not going to talk about it. Martina will make sure of that. It was a one-off that shouldn't have happened, as far as she's concerned, and as such, she's going to treat the entire incident like a distant hallucination, something that wasn't real in the first place.

It meant nothing. She's still getting over Shifty, and he his wife, in a way, and it was a great big terrible mistake, and they were drunk- very, _very_ drunk, and it didn't mean anything _at all,_ so he can just forget about any repeat incidents.

She can't just take up on the rebound with Joey Boswell. That's a catastrophe waiting to happen, that is.

And Martina's learned her lesson about catastrophes. Stay away from them.

Stick to the plan. No-one's going to play her for a fool again, she said. And she means to keep that resolution forever.

So when he strides in with his usual cry of 'Greetings!' she gives him the typical cold stare, and enquires what Mister Boswell wants today.

'Well, as you may or may not be aware…' oh, good, he's already revving up to a speech, 'during our somewhat eventful lives, we have collected around us rather a large collection of valuable and unusual possessions…'

Martina finds it just as easy as usual to say _oh, you mean_ and then rattle off a long list of increasingly outlandish valuables. She supposes some things never change, no matter how much the world changes around you. And so far, so good. He's not even mentioning the _incident_.

'You got it, sweetheart. You got it. And as you know, in the past we utilised the services of a guard dog to protect our home and our family's prizes…'

'You mean the one who used to bring me notes in 'is mouth about claimin' fer better dog meat?'

'One and the same. And as you are most likely aware, since the tragic day our Mongy was run over, our fam-i-ly and home have been without the protection we so desperately require…'

'Er, would you be so kind as to get ter the point, Mister Boswell? Only we do close in three hours, you know, and there are other desperadoes 'ere waitin' for their turn, so they can come up 'ere and whine about their pathetic little problems.'

'The point is,' Joey begins, and then stops there.

Martina, getting fed up, clenches her fist and steels her face. '_Go on. _The dramatic pause isn't doin' anythin' to aid yer cause- it's just makin' me angry. And if you keep on angerin' me, you will _not_ be gettin' a form.'

Joey crosses one leg over the other, wraps his hands around his knee.

'The point is,' and he stops again, veering off in a different direction, 'are you cross with me?'

She has to take a deep breath to stop herself throttling him. Of course she's cross, what kind of question is that? How could she not be, when he's strategically infuriating her, refusing to just come out with whatever he wants?

'I think that goes without sayin', Mister Boswell. _Point. Now._'

'Don't you want to hear my beautifully crafted speech, then?'

'Mister Boswell, if I 'ad my way, I wouldn't be hearin' anythin' from you- _ever again_. Your speeches make me sick to me stomach- as does the rest o' you.'

'Harsh words, even for you. Look, the point is, well…' he twiddles his thumbs, 'really, I just wanted to talk to you. After last night, and all.'

'There's nothin' ter talk about. I want ter forget about that. Now kindly remember that this is the DH- the DSS, Mister Boswell. We deal with _business_ matters, and I would appreciate it if you would limit yer conversation ter _business matters_ from now on.' She keeps her voice even and slow, making sure she gets her point across concisely.

His forehead creases.

'Such a shame, sweetheart. Such a shame. I thought we were gettin' a nice little friendship off the ground there.'

_'Friendship_?' Martina spits. 'Since when did people get their 'friends' drunk, and…'

'I didn't _get_ you drunk,' Joey chuckles. 'We both just…ended up in that state. We were merely the victims of circumstance.'

Martina tuts, but she can't be bothered to point out that constantly buying drinks, in her book, doesn't count as being a victim of circumstance.

'Look, the other night-'

'The other night, Mister Boswell, didn't 'appen. It doesn't exist.'

Joey looks more than mildly disappointed, but rallies nonetheless. 'S'pose you're right, sweetheart. Mustn't let it get in the way of our friendship.'

What friendship? _There is no friendship_. She hates him. Always has. And just because she got on so well with him on the night-that-didn't-happen, just because of the kiss, just because they- well, it doesn't mean she feels anything at all in terms of anything.

She purses her lips. 'I don't make friends with Boswells.'

* * *

It's true. She doesn't. What's more, she never will.

And from now on, she will avoid Joey Boswell as much as is humanly possible.

It's hard to avoid someone, though, when they're so good at finding you.

Martina leaves her flat the next morning in a hurry- she's overslept, and her bus will leave any minute. She pulls the door shut with ferocious force- it always sticks, it's not in proper working order, much like the rest of her flat- wrestles the key out of the lock and turns, intent on hurrying down the stairs and towards the street.

When she sees Joey Boswell leaning on the staircase she nearly falls over backwards.

'What do you think you're doing, Mister Boswell?' she demands.

'Greetings!' He throws up his hands, grinning from ear to ear.

'Enough o' that. I _said_ what are you doin' 'ere?'

'Well, unless I'm mistaken, I'm waitin' for you, sweetheart. Thought you might appreciate a lift to work.'

'I told yer. I don't want ter talk to you.' She pushes past him and starts down the stairs. The clack of shoes on metal indicates he's following. She picks up her pace, her heel catches on a stray hole and Martina nearly goes tumbling forward. Her heart skips a beat, a sudden rush of adrenaline hitting her, and then something grabs hold of her arm, yanks her backwards and holds her steady.

'Careful, there, sunshine. Don't want to go head-first into the concrete, do we? It'd ruin that pretty face of yours.'

'You can let go now, Mister Boswell.'

He sighs, doing so, leaning back against the railing again. 'Look, the other night wasn't intentional, sweetheart, and I'm _sorry. _Okay? I'm sorry if I stepped out of line- I never meant for it to go that far.'

Martina doesn't remember hearing him sound this sincere before. She wants to be irrational, ask why he's sorry, is she not good enough for him now, or something, even when she wants him to be remorseful. That's what women normally do when they're scorned. That's the sort of thing she feels she should do, given the circumstances. She shouldn't just accept this strange apology, she shouldn't be making it easy for Joey Boswell, letting him think he's gotten away with it.

But she doesn't say any of that. In fact, she makes no comment at all.

'And I meant what I said yesterday.' He lightly touches her shoulder. 'I do want to be your friend.'

Martina feels oddly touched, and a strange feeling overcomes her for just a moment- a strange, horrible feeling. For a moment she actually _likes_ him for saying this, actually _wants_ to be friends with him. But the feeling lasts less than a split second, just a flicker, a spark that ignites when you light a match but don't do it properly and then instantly sputters out, and she hardens her face, stares him down.

'And _I_ meant what _I _said. I don't make friends with Boswells.'

'Times change, sweetheart. Times change. What's to say I'm the same Joey Boswell you loathed so ardently in the past?'

'That little speech fer one. You're _no different_ at all. All the little games you play, all that rubbish you spout, all that _arrogance…_' But even as she lists item after item, her mind's playing back to her all the ways he _has_ changed- despite all the little teases and cheeky grins of old, there is, overall, a more serious quality to him, a more sensitive air. She thinks about the way he'd talked to her the other night, before they got too drunk to be serious anymore, and the way he'd talked about his ex-wife and son, and the way he'd actually _sold_ his flashy gear for the sake of the child he loved. He _has_ grown-up, she realises, if only just a little bit, but this frightens her even more than an unchanged Joey Boswell would in many ways. And she doesn't know what to do about it.

What she _wants_ to do is get away from here before she even has to think about one ounce more. She'd rush down the stairs right now, only he's standing in her way.

'All that frostiness,' Joey counters, 'all that stubbornness…well, even if we haven't changed, what's to say we couldn't get used to each other as we are, eh?' He smiles warmly.

'I can't imagine why you'd want to, or what'd make you think I'm the least bit interested,' she growls, impatiently looking down her at her watch. Her eyes bug right out of her head when she notices the time.

'And now I've missed me bus because o' you!'

'Have no fear. I have alternative methods of transport at my disposal, and you are more than welcome to make use of them.'

'You mean yer _Jaguar_?' she spits. 'The famous, lent-to-you-but-not Jaguar?'

'One and the same.'

'So much fer all me prayers that somehow it'd fall ter bits and you'd have to take public transport like everyone else.'

'Well before that disaster befalls me, I might as well make the most of it and travel in style.'

'Go ahead,' Martina says. 'I'm goin' ter use _honest _methods.' She pushes him, hard, and as he stumbles against the railing she makes use of her opportunity and escapes past him, down the stairs and onto the footpath.

It's another half an hour 'til the next bus, according to the timetable in her handbag, so Martina decides she might as well walk. It can't be _that_ far- it doesn't look it when she's riding to work.

So she starts walking.

Ten steps, then twenty, then more. She's uncomfortable in her shoes- three-inch heels aren't exactly stilettos, but they still can't be called 'walking shoes' either, and already she's beginning to regret this.

The gentle rumble of an engine sounds, building up in a crescendo 'til it's right upon her, a sleek car gliding along the side of the road and coming to rest a few feet in front of her. Joey winds down the window and leans out.

'Get in the car, sweetheart. You're being silly.'

She huffs indignantly, keeps on walking without looking. The Jaguar trundles along beside her, matching her pace.

'Go _away.'_

'So let me get this straight,' there's a laugh in his voice, which makes her temper rise. 'You're gonna walk three miles wearin' _those_ shoes? Even you can't be _that_ stubborn.'

She gives him a look which she hopes says _watch me_, turns away, keeps on down the path, not checking to see if the car is still following her.

She walks the whole three miles, shoes and all, just to spite him. The heel comes off the left one and her feet are blistered and raw. She's fifteen minutes late for work. And on top of all that, she's got a splitting headache.

But it's better than letting Joey Boswell think he's won.

That'll teach him.

* * *

The next day, the Jag's waiting for her again. She pushes straight past him without a word.

'Goin' through all that again, are you?' he chuckles.

Her shoulders tense. She looks determinedly ahead at the path.

_I've lived through this before._

But it seems longer than it did yesterday, and her heels still throb from where the skin's rubbed away. She's wearing flatter shoes today, but the memory of yesterday still makes the walk look daunting.

With a look of cross resignation, she gets in the car.

Joey wears a smug expression all the way to the DSS.

* * *

'And where were you this mornin'?' Martina raises one eyebrow.

'Missin' me that badly, were you?'

Martina folds her hands and rests them on her clipboard. 'You _know_ the rules, Mister Boswell. You sign-on at the time you are allocated, or you do _not_ receive yer giro. If you're gettin' somethin' for nothin', you _obey the rules, _you hear?'

Joey laughs, light and ringing. 'If that's the excuse you want to use, sweetheart, to cover up the fact you missed me.'

She shakes her head.

It's been two weeks now. A whole fortnight since the incident-that-wasn't (or, if you want to get technical, the incident-that-was-but-she'll-say-wasn't-even-thoug h-it-was), and Martina and Joey have settled into a strange sort of alliance- they speak, they joke with each other, much like they always have, Joey tries to pull one over on her every time he comes up with a new scheme, and she deflects his attempts to leave with every form in the building, as always.

But every now and then they have these…_moments_- strange moments where they'll suddenly stop, mid-battle, they'll look at each other, or one of them will say something oddly profound, and suddenly they'll be looking right into each other's cores, through their masks, seeing each other's hurts and fears and wants. It unsettles Martina no end, and at the same time, in a strange sort of way, she likes it. She can't exactly explain how, or why, but she does. Their encounters inside the DSS are much more interesting. Their encounters outside it- because, yes, there have been more, seemingly coincidental meetings by cash-point machines or in the park or in other such places- are becoming more pleasantly anticipated. She almost lets herself think she looks forward to them.

_Almost_, but she stops herself just before crossing that line into the _definite_ realm.

Sometimes, Martina thinks, she'd like to just let herself come out and say it- Joey Boswell is becoming her _friend_. But she doesn't have friends, not many- she won't get close to too many people, not after all the countless figures from her past who've let her down- and anyway, she doesn't make friends with Boswells. So no matter how hard Joey tries to improve her opinion of him, no matter how much she finds herself smiling and teasing back, she draws a line and stays behind it, remains reserved when she can, turns the conversation back to Social Security matters if it starts to go in a dangerous direction.

'And what's yer demand this time?' she asks. '_Another_ new bed for yer Grandad? He seems to be goin' through a lot o' those lately- funny, considerin' he isn't _actually incontinent_.'

'Well, he wasn't, years ago, but who's to say he isn't now?'

'Fer one thing, Mister Boswell, it's only been three years since you stopped comin' 'ere, and besides, your Billy's still been comin' down every now and then. And despite all the little problems 'e's been tryin' ter fob me off with, the list of which could stretch around the _world_, he…'

'He can't hold a candle to _my_ way of elaboration' on the fam-i-ly's issues, can he?' Joey interrupts before she can get to the bit about never hearing about Grandad's situation getting worse, if indeed it was all that bad in the first place, which she doubts. 'Well, he's just a baby lad, isn't he? Hasn't lived- hasn't had enough experience to be brilliant yet.'

'He's _twenty-five_- he's not a baby. And you're not as 'brilliant' as you think, Mister Boswell.'

'So you say, sweetheart,' Joey grins, 'so you say.'

'Yer claim?' Martina reminds him.

'Just a small cheque to tide me over,' Joey says, 'just to keep me on my feet.'

'And wouldn't you be able to stand on yer own two feet anyway now? If you've got enough money ter replace yer gold watch, you've got enough to tide you over.'

Joey opens his mouth but she cuts to the chase. 'I _saw_ yer, Mister Boswell. I _saw _you comin' out o' the jeweller's. I can see the watch now.' She nods smugly, and Joey moves his left hand under the desk and laughs sheepishly.

'I may have done well…in me own way…on the one-off occasion…'

'_One-off,_' Martina rolls her eyes. 'Oh, go on. What d'you want this so-called 'small cheque' for?'

'Well, as you know, since I've been divorced, I've had alimony payments to think of…'

'Er, we gave you a cheque fer yer alimony the other day!'

'Yeah, _but_,' Joey begins, 'it came to a bit extra this time. A few extra expenses.'

Martina looks at him. 'Why?'

'_We-ell,_' Joey says, and then his voice softens again, and Martina senses one of those strange, emotional shifts in the conversation. 'It was Oscar's birthday last week. I don't know where he is, what he wants or anythin'. I can't even phone him. I sent him a cheque- well, I had to send it through Roxy, didn't I? I don't know if it'll even get to him…'

He stares off into the distance, and Martina puts her hand over his. She's not one for falling for sob-stories, has never, _will_ never be moved by Joey's pathetic attempts to move her to tears. But this isn't a pathetic attempt to move her to tears, or a forced sob-story. This is real. And she _actually_ feels sympathy for him.

'I see.'

'I don't want to think that Roxy's pocketed it- I'd like to think he's got it, but I just don't know.'

'I see,' she says again. She says that a lot, she notices. She absently considers learning another back-channelling phrase just for some variety.

'I can't help thinkin' it's the sort o' thing she'd do,' Joey goes on. 'If only to get back at me.'

'Sounds like the sort o' thing Shifty'd do,' Martina says ruefully, 'although 'e'd probably blame 'is childhood, and the fact that…'

'His mother was a friendly soul so she was,' they mimic in sync.

Martina sighs. 'He tried to blame everythin' on 'is childhood. All the things he stole, the trouble he got into…'

'He was doin' the same when he stayed at ours. You know, the first day he was with us he brought Grandad a whole heap o' pressies- and, mind you, he'd just come out o' prison, he had no money at all.'

'He nicked them, then.' She can imagine.

'He brought us a receipt, kept _insisting_ it was all paid for- but he'd swapped the price tags over, gotten the whole lot for practically nothin'.'

Martina rolls her eyes. So like him.

'I suppose it does affect you, though, really,' she sighs.

'What does?'

'Yer childhood. I mean look at you- you 'ad the luxury of a large family, all clutchin' each other and dotin' on one another and you think you're entitled to every luxury you can get yer 'ands on…'

'What you say has a ring of truth to it, sweetheart- I _was_ blessed with a loving, united fam-i-ly, but that doesn't necessarily mean…'

'I suppose,' Martina's off in her own world, not paying attention to whatever family fairy tale he's working towards, 'if you follow that theory, it does explain a lot. My childhood was _miserable_- I had one parent who was a gambler, one who cared about nothin'- and neither of them cared about _me_, I 'ad an alcoholic brother who's _still_ on the run for robbin' a brewery and for accumulatin' a lot o' debts- a bad influence, but I loved 'im, all the same, and then he left- I suppose all that's why my life's so hopeless. Why _I'm_ so hopeless.'

The beam on Joey's face brought about by talking about his family fades. 'You're not _hopeless_, sweetheart! Don't think that!'

She laughs morbidly. 'Oh, you think, do you? I've been workin' in the same job since I was twenty, spendin' me life fendin' off scroungers and never expandin' me mind past the ability to shout _next_, I've 'ad a series of 'opeless relationships- most notably _Shifty_, o' course- I'm thirty-five years old and have nothin' to show for me life at all.'

'And you sound like you're thinkin' about givin' up, sweetheart. You shouldn't do that. You're a strong woman, Martina. Fight back with everythin' you've got. You know those things in your head called _dreams_? Follow the bastards 'til they come true.'

Martina growls under her breath. Another poetic pep talk from Joey Boswell, grand orator extraordinaire. 'I don't 'ave dreams.'

'Pity, sweetheart. Such a pretty head, it should be filled with pretty thoughts, you know.'

'Don't start, Mister Boswell. I can't stand those sorts o' false compliments, just so you can get what you want.'

He looks wounded, and she can't tell if he really is or not. It's getting harder and harder to tell these days. He confounds her.

'It wasn't a false compliment, sunshine. I meant it. You really _are_ very beautiful. I've always thought so.'

Martina just shakes her head.

'I have dreams,' Joey sighs, staring at the ceiling. 'I always had the dream of a white house in Gateacre- a lawn and a driveway and Roxy wavin' me goodbye in a silk dressing gown…' he trails off. 'I thought I'd come close to gettin' it, you know- I had Roxy, and I thought that meant I was gonna be happy, have a happy life with her...turns out that wasn't gonna happen.'

'Happy isn't real, Mister Boswell. Someone made it up one day to stop us complainin'.'

'I was happy when it was just us. The fam-i-ly, I mean. When we were all together, no worries, just…'

'Unity and loyalty?'

'Precisely.'

'You were lucky, Mister Boswell. Most of us don't 'ave that.'

'Well,' he pulls a gold pen out of his pocket, fiddles with it, 'I suppose I was, in many ways.' He leans forward, pulling his hand out from under hers, wraps it round her wrist instead, 'but I do think happiness is real. And I think you should too.'

Martina swallows. Since he's come back, Joey has suddenly developed the ability to play havoc with her emotions, manipulate them, actually make her feel like she's going to cry. She sighs, forces herself not to show even a flicker of emotion, and makes sure that when she replies to him, it's with dignity and composure.

* * *

'And, of course, what you have to realise, sweetheart, is that when our Billy said…'

'OI!'

Joey is cut off mid-flow. Martina can't even remember how they got round to talking about his Billy- the conversation has just gone on and on, and morphed and morphed and morphed, subjects seamlessly melting into one another. And, surprisingly, it's been very, well…_relaxing, _a sort of soothing tonic, though she can't think why, when Joey Boswell always has been the man to rile her up most.

It's only now the angry man has come up behind Joey, red-faced and looking ready for a shout that she remembers she probably should have been working instead of chatting. How long has all this gone on anyway?

'Have you two finished cosying up _yet?_ Only this desk has been occupied for _ages_, and the queue's gettin' longer, and the other two _still_ haven't called my number- AND IN A MINUTE THE PUBS'LL BE CLOSED, SO HURRY UP AND GET TO ME, WILL YOU?'

'YEAH!' yells another man from his chair, 'it takes twice as long when the numbers are bein' called two at a time instead of three! I got here at one-thirty, I did! _One-thirty!_ Before that bastard,' he gestures rudely in Joey's direction, 'came struttin' in 'ere, and I still ain't been seen!'

Martina rolls her eyes, makes a face at Joey. _You'd better go_, she tells him, without actually saying the words aloud.

_If I must, dear lady,_ he replies, without speaking aloud either.

Martina wonders when they graduated to a stage where they could know exactly what the other was saying just by clocking the expression on their face. Are they both that transparent? Or has it just evolved from a very long association, of years and years of the same sorts of little games, the same conversations and facial expressions rehashed so it's easy to tell tease from flattery from sarcasm from serious no-nonsense _you're not getting a form?_ Oh, she can't tell anything other than superficial things, can only predict the teases- the strange, serious Joey Boswell she knows nothing about, can't understand at all, but even so, the amount of insight she does have unnerves her. She shudders. Doesn't bear thinking about.

Joey pushes his chair out, its legs squealing as they scrape against the floor, and gives a mock-courteous nod to both the antagonising men. 'If you can exercise just a smidgeon more patience and bear with me, gentlemen, I will be out of your way directly.'

He reaches back through the partition, takes Martina's hand and kisses it. He's done that once or twice before, but not for years and years. Not since she'd told him the DHSS wouldn't pay for his dog's operation- so long ago now that she'd forgotten.

And then he sweeps out- his swagger really is impressive, when he wants it to be, he's been practising and perfecting what he thinks of as his 'elegant style' for many a year- and the first of the two pushy clients slams himself into the chair with a force equally impressive as Joey's stride.

'About _time_, pal,' he spits in Joey's general direction, even though he's already gone. 'Now, you, _where the hell's me bloody money?_'

Martina lets her eyes do a full 360. She's been played this record so many times.

As she rummages through her rolodex for the man's card, she glances up at the clock and nearly falls right out of her chair. She's been talking to Joey for nearly an _hour_. No wonder the clients are all angry.

Not good. Not good at all.

She resolves to make more of an effort to tone this strange 'friendship' down before it gets any more out of control.

* * *

'Greetings!'

Martina gets up off the park bench and walks off in the opposite direction. Joey runs after her.

'You all right, sweetheart?'

'What are you doin'?' she demands, not looking at him.

'Just happened to be passin' by, and I ran into you- by chance, of course,' he says, clearly lying. 'Just thought I'd see how you were.'

'Well, kindly _stop_ runnin' into me in future,' she replies, picks up her pace and leaves him standing there.

* * *

There have been lots of such incidents since _that night, _and Martina smiles every time they occur, then quickly reprimands herself. She's not going to let him into her life. It's not going to happen. That incident in the DSS had been a wakeup call. If she could lose her faculties for an entire hour when there was important work to be done, then she could easily lose more of them, and she could wind up in either another Shifty situation or in a position where Joey's gently manipulating her just to get what he wants from the state.

So whenever he runs into her,(_by chance, of course_, he says every time, clearly lying) and she doesn't know what his motives are, (frankly, she doesn't want to), she makes sure to send him on his way, pronto.

The next time really _is_ 'by chance', though. And it's _she_ who runs into _him_.

She pops into a very cheap and disgusting café around four in the afternoon- too early for dinner, really, and she's not really in the mood for it. She knows from experience that the placemats on the table probably taste better than the food here, but the stove in her flat's packed it in again, and she can't afford to eat anywhere fancy if she wants to be able to afford to get it fixed.

And the first person she sees is Joey Boswell, sitting at a wobbly table, jacket slung over his chair, elbow in his plate and not noticing, staring off into space. He looks like someone's put him in a cocktail shaker and shaken him up, and her first reaction is to worry about him.

Something in her stomach flutters unpleasantly to see him like this. She doesn't want to see him looking upset. She wants him to be how he was, all wall-to-wall smiles and pathetic jokes and boasts, wants to chase away this depression that's weighing him down.

_No, no, I don't. He's nothin' ter do with me. I'm going to just go. Just leave, right now. It's none o' my business anyway._

She pulls up a chair from a neighbouring table, comes and sits beside him.

_Er, body? Are you at all connected to me brain?_

'Don't you normally have dinner with your united family?' She holds onto the hope that the taunt will stir him out of this state.

Joey's eyes are hollow and empty. 'Didn't feel like it. Sometimes I don't, you know. They can get a bit crowdin', occasionally. Well, you know.'

'No, I don't.'

'Oh,' Joey looks nonplussed.

'I think I can get at what you mean, though,' Martina amends hastily. 'What's upset you, then? Is it Roxy again?'

'No, it's not Roxy. I just told you, didn't I? It's me family.'

'Yer Grandad's incontinence playin' up again?' she teases, but he gives her a look that clearly says he's not in the mood, and the vicious smirk fades from her face. 'Sorry.'

'I got angry with them,' he says, and then raises his eyebrows at her to indicate the seriousness of this statement. 'I _never_ get angry with them- not like this.'

'Oh.'

'I…' he clenches and unclenches his fists, 'I threatened to leave home.'

That sounds so unlike him Martina has to do a double-take, make sure she's heard properly. 'Why?'

'It just all got too much- Adrian came over for dinner, and he and Billy had been arguin' all evenin'- can't even remember what _about_, now, and they just wouldn't stop, not even when I told 'em to cut it, and me Mam had been goin' on for hours about what a success Adrian'd made of himself, how he had a stable relationship and children and how she wished Billy and I'd do the same, and then she started on me whole relationship with Roxy, about how she used the fact that I was attached to Oscar to get me to do things for her all the time…' he pauses for breath.

Martina makes a humming noise to indicate she's listening.

'And you know I've been a bit tense lately about that- what with Oscar's birthday, I especially miss him now- and I just got fed up with hearin' it,started shoutin' at her, and I feel so guilty, after all she's done for me…'

He pauses, but she senses he's not finished yet. She waits.

'I told her…' he puts his fist to his mouth- he can't get it out. He tries again. 'I told her she ruined my marriage. That it was all her fault.'

'You didn't,' she mutters.

'I shouldn't have. I didn't mean it- o' course I didn't- and it _wasn't_- I mean, Roxy hated my family, hated the fact that I always spent time with me Mam, but _she_ was still the one who had an affair, who kicked me out, it was nothin' to do with Mam…I feel so terrible, Martina. She looked so _hurt_. And then me brothers turned on me, stood up for me Mam- well, of course they would, they're Boswells after all…'

'Of course…'

'And we stick together. In retrospect I'm proud of them- but I shouted at the lot of them, told them it was all their faults, hence it was all their faults I could no longer see me son, and then I stormed out.'

He puts his head in his hands.

Martina takes in his form, sharp angles of his shoulders betraying all the tension, all the stress, and without really registering what she's doing she brushes her hand through his hair.

He raises his head, gives her a weak smile. 'I just can't believe I did that to me own family. It's just…it was so hard to keep me mouth shut, I was so angry and they were doin' my 'ead in- but I'd never mean it. They mean the _world_ to me, sweetheart. And the thing is, even if they _had_ been responsible for me marriage goin' bust, I'd still love them. I'd never really want to leave them…'

'Well, I know it's 'ard, I've been there,' she says, moving closer to him, 'you can't ever really hate them, no matter what they do.' She thinks of her own brother. She still misses him even now, even though he broke her heart by disappearing, with no explanation, leaving her to read _in the papers_ that he was wanted and on the run. He left her, bleeding and broken, his cruel act of heartbreaking setting a benchmark for Shifty and most others in her life to aspire to. She hates him for doing that, but at the same time she loves him 'til it aches.

That's why she's always resented Joey's big, loving family unit so much. They have what she wants, what she used to have and lost. She had one brother whom she loved to bits and pieces, who was terrible for her, possibly the worst influence a child could have- got her drunk when she was _nine_, for goodness' sake, but who loved her in a way her parents never did- and then one day just up and ran off and left her without anyone, and she now hasn't seen him for fifteen years. And Joey has _three_ brothers and a sister, and they all love each other and gather round in their sickening unity, rubbing it in her face.

She supposes, now his words have brought Roger up again in her mind, Martina should probably start feeling those familiar glimmers of disdain, of jealousy hidden under practical excuses, like the fact that they cheat the Social Security, but she can't really feel any of that just now. She doesn't feel jealous at this exact moment. She isn't even getting the urge to gloat that at last the little Boswell-clan-dream-thing has collapsed for Joey, if only for a few minutes (because she knows he'll have sorted it out by tomorrow morning, if it even takes _that_ long). She just wants to sympathise, to make him feel better.

It's not like her at all. She likes to make people hurt, out of some twisted, misguided belief that that'll somehow soothe her own sores. She doesn't go comforting people.

But that's what she wants to do.

'Is this about your alcoholic?' Joey asks, picking up his fork and examining the prongs as he does.

'I'm surprised you remember me mentionin' that.'

'You happen to be very dear to me, sweetheart. I remember a lot of things you say.'

'But your brain just _happens_ ter bypass the important things, like yer allocated time ter sign on?'

He gives a half-hearted chuckle, still playing with his fork. 'You said he was wanted for debts or robbery or somethin'.'

'That's right.' She doesn't really want to elaborate, but she adds a little more for the sake of it. 'He vanished one mornin'. I was devastated.'

'When was that?'

'Me twentieth birthday.'

Joey makes a horrified noise. 'Aw, _hey_. Really_?'_

'Yes, really, Mister Boswell. I'm no good at craftin' stories the way you are.'

'Puts my situation in the shade, doesn't it?

A laugh rumbles in the back of her throat. 'It does, yeah.'

'And here I am goin' on because I argued with my brothers and me Mam.' Joey looks up at her, sadness in his eyes, but also a strange glint of something she can't name. 'I may 'ave said it before, but it truly _is_ amazin' the way you pick yourself up after things like that. You'll have to teach me how to do that.'

He wraps his hand around hers, and she squeezes it. They don't move for about ten minutes. Joey rests his head against her shoulder.

'Are you gonna get yer elbow out o' yer food?' Martina says at length. 'You've got gravy all over yer sleeve.'

Joey looks down in surprise, realises what she's said is true. What's worse, he's been slouching- there's now disgustingly congealed brown liquid going from his elbow right down to his cuff.

'Ugh,' he mutters, shaking his arm to try and get some of it off. Droplets splatter onto Martina's blouse, and she yelps.

'Oi!'

And for the first time this evening, Joey laughs.

* * *

The warning bells only start to sound in Martina's head when they part, when she's walking off home. She's supposed to be keeping her distance from him- she's supposed to be on her guard, not running to wipe his nose if she sees him looking sad. Her built-in warning system is getting too slow.

The next three times he comes down to the Social Security she refuses to smile at him. She keeps her tone acerbic, her facial expressions hard. She will talk only about business- after all, that's all she's supposed to be doing.

She slams forms down, doesn't meet his eye, taps her pen on the counter if he tries to linger.

Joey leaves looking mildly annoyed.

* * *

It occurs to Martina she's giving Joey Boswell mixed signals.

She doesn't like that.

She isn't a mixed signal person. She's always been a very straightforward person, a very say-what-you-think and mean-what-you-say type of person, and yet she's been messing around, sometimes being kind, warm, friendly, and at other times being cold and emotionless. What's she going to make Joey think if she keeps on like this? What's she making herself think? She should pick one- cold or nice- and stick to it, really, that's what she should do.

Trouble is, that's what she's been _trying_ to do for nearly a month, and it's proving difficult. She's been _trying_ to be consistently frosty, but fate seems to have other plans, is starting to throw other things into the mix and setting her completely off-balance.

A strange thing comes over her as she looks at him these days. Since he's come back, something has changed. She looks forward to his visits more than ever, feels pleased when she sees him waiting for her. She enjoys spending time with him, and it makes her feel that much better to know that she has someone to talk to, someone who understands.

But at the same time this terrifies her. She has now come to think of Joey Boswell as a 'friend' -something she would have sniffed at years ago, but no matter, that isn't the issue here. And the issue isn't what went on between them that other night, either, because they don't discuss that. They don't dwell on that mistake, they just talk about other things, are each other's confidantes, as opposed to…other things.

The issue is that she's beginning to show unmistakeable symptoms of a disease she doesn't want to get, ever again. She's beginning to _care_ about him, to worry when he seems miserable, to like him. These, she understands, are_ feelings_- they are things that can't be trusted, because they will inevitably start to rage out of control.

She shouldn't keep talking to him, seeing him, she thinks. These feelings might get stronger- she fears they have already begun. She's balancing on a the brink of a cliff, one one side the solid ground of normality, of singularity and distance from all others, and on the other side the great abyss of emotional turmoil, of attachments that can only bring pain. She should take a step back.

The phone rings. She answers it.

'Greetings! I'm just in the area…'

She can't help it- just the first syllable of _greetings_ and her face has broken out into a smile.

'Seein' as you live 'in the area', that's no surprise.'

'And I wondered if you would, perhaps, do me the honour of lettin' me pick you up from work.'

_Step back. Step back. Step back. Onto the solid ground. Go._

But she accepts his offer.

And so Martina finds herself wobbling.

* * *

'Why don't we get some dinner?' Joey says the instant she does up her seatbelt.

'What for?' she asks warily.

'For food.'

She gives him a filthy look.

'Well, you did say you like it when I feed you, even if it is from grovellin'.' He takes her hand, swings it back and forth between them, 'and I think that might just be what the doctor ordered- some grovellin'. Seein' as how you've got the hump.'

'I've not got 'the hump',' she growls.

'Really, sweetheart? You've been getting' tetchy- 'aven't smiled at me for days now.'

'I don't see any reason why I should, Mister Boswell.'

'When I'm bein' so wonderfully generous to you, sweetheart, you don't see why you should see your way to throwin' me a small bone of friendliness once in a while?'

'Same old Mister Boswell,' she mutters. 'You were always talkin' in poetry back then, too.'

He throws his head back; his ringing laugh fills the car.

She likes the sound, but she doesn't like to admit that she does.

'So why the hump, then?' his face grows serious, once he's let the last remnants of his laugh out.

'I told you, I 'aven't got the hump.'

'You've been givin' me looks so acidic, sweetheart, that they could dissolve through _steel_.'

'Well, what else can I do? Yer claims are gettin' more and more ridiculous, aren't they, Mister Boswell?' It's the best thing she can think of to say- she can hardly admit she's ignoring him because she might possibly be considering loving him a little bit, and she doesn't want that to happen. That's the sort of thing he'd never let her forget.

She hastily changes the subject to one she knows will grab his full attention.

'Why'd you want to eat out again anyway? The great row with yer family still goin' on, is it?'

'Oh, no, don't fret,' he says cheerfully, 'I've sorted it out. I've sorted it out.'

'Go crawlin' back on yer 'ands and knees, did you?'

'Spyin' on me, were you?' Joey teases. 'Is that what DHSS ladies like to do in their spare time-watch their unsuspecting clients in compromising positions?'

'That's a pathetic attempt at humour, Mister Boswell…'

He goes on regardless of her comment. 'Never would have pegged you for that type, sweetheart...'

'Oh, shut up.'

'Mind you, speakin' of compromising positions…'

'_Don't_…' she warns, before he can bring up _the incident._ That would be straying into territory she wants permanently closed off.

'…you do like to put me in compromisin' positions in the DHSS, don't you, sweetheart? Like to try and trap me, don't you?'

A very risky save, Martina thinks. Unless, of course, that's what he was going to say all along. She's just not sure anymore. She's not sure what to think of Joey Boswell at_ all_ anymore. At times she feels she knows everything he's going to say, and then suddenly he says the opposite of what she expects, and everything's thrown off-balance again.

Instead of dwelling on all her confusion, she changes the subject once again.

'Where are we goin', then, fer this 'grovellin' feed'?'

'Oh, how about some quaint little place I know? Good food, good wine, soft lightin', music…'

'I 'ope you're payin' fer this…'

'Naturally.'

'In that case, 'ow about some lovely little _expensive_ place you know?'

'I always go expensive, sweetheart. It ensures you always end up with the best.'

'Oh, good.'

'You agree with me?'

'No,' Martina says, smiling evilly, 'but if I take some sneaky photographs o' how you spend the state's money, I can finally 'ave evidence to 'ave you arrested fer defraudin' the Social Security.'

* * *

The place Joey chooses _is_ quaint, _is_ little, _is_, without a doubt, very, very expensive. Martina has a minor heart attack when she reads the prices on the menu, then decides she might as well try to have fun while she's here and deliberately picks the most expensive thing she can find, taking careful note of his reaction.

She's not satisfied with it, though. Not so much as a raised eyebrow. Instead, he just smiles, nods at the waiter and then orders a special that she hasn't even noticed which is twice as pricey as hers.

She makes a few more comments about the cost of the evening, and he waves them off with a rather annoying Boswell-ism about the best things in life being expensive. He suggests a wine for them to have with the meal, and she jokingly accuses him first of trying to poison her, then of trying to drug her with something so she'll be easily tricked into signing over the kingdom to him.

He laughs heartily, and she realises that for the past fifteen, maybe twenty minutes they've just been getting along like actual, proper friends.

Strange, considering she keeps reiterating how she doesn't make friends with Boswells.

Strange, considering she'd thought it would be impossible to make a friendship between them work, that she shouldn't really try.

And slightly alarming, considering the fact that how well they're getting on is making her think once again about how she might be accidentally almost falling in love with him, making her think that this feels suspiciously like a date. Except no, it isn't, it's not a date. It's just not.

She doesn't get a chance to really think about it, though, because, while she gazes off into space, her mind starting to drift, Joey's fork creeps over from across the table, captures a piece of squash from her plate and carries it away.

'Oi!'

'I'm merely tastin', sweetheart. Your dish _does_ look appetizing.'

Martina glares. 'Get yer own.'

'I don't need to, do I? Not when you can provide me with a sample.'

'If you _insist_ on bein' me friend, you could at least refrain from stealin' me food.'

Joey grins naughtily, holds his fork up to his mouth and takes small bites of it, eating it very slowly in front of her. 'I must admit, you've got good taste.'

'Oh, _well_,' Martina says when he's done, because he's not getting away with _this_, she won't be beaten, 'two can play at that game, you know.'

And she lunges for his plate with her own fork.

Joey clinks his knife against it, stopping her halfway. 'Oh, no you don't.'

She tuts. 'You hypocrite.'

'Only _I_ may swipe food in that manner,' he says, a cheeky twinkle in his eye. He traces his fork around the plate, pushing it through a lump of something in sauce and holding it up to her lips.

'Here.'

She feels embarrassingly stupid as she lets him feed it to her- it's the sort of soppy romantic thing she's always hated, only no, she has to remember, this isn't a _date_, there's nothing even slightly _romantic_ about it. They're just friends. Sort of. In a way.

It turns out to be a mushroom he's given her, and it's buttery and just slightly garlicky and seems to melt under her tongue.

'Haven't got bad taste yerself,' she murmurs.

'Consider yourself lucky, sweetheart. I wouldn't part with those mushrooms for anyone else. They are undoubtedly the best part of the dish.'

'What, even better than the…' she looks over at his plate, but they seem to be all the dish consists of. He notices her snooping.

'Ah, yes, there's no meat, sweetheart- I'm a vegetarian, in case you were wondering.'

She wasn't, but this new confession just makes her snort. 'No you're not.'

He looks slightly affronted. 'Yes, I _am_, sweetheart. I am a firm believer that beef, pork and chicken are all animals, and should be treated as living, feeling creatures and not eaten.'

A very different sort of speech, but a Boswell speech nonetheness. And even more ridiculous than the usual ones, because of the most obvious flaw in it.

'Oh, yeah?' she raises one eyebrow. Oh, she's going to enjoy this. If he hasn't noticed, then she'll be able to gloat forever and ever, point out that for once she's outsmarted him. If he hasn't noticed, he's not even half as clever as she thought. And if he has, she can brand him a blatant hypocrite outright.

'Yeah,' he says, folding his hands and leaning forward. She can't believe he doesn't know what she's going to say next.

'So you wear them instead?'

Both of them look down at his genuine leather coat, at his genuine leather trousers, his genuine leather shoes and erupt into laughter.

'So, are you _deliberately _bein' ignorant, or just a hypocrite?'

'Er…' Joey shifts uncomfortably in his chair. 'May I pass on this question?'

'No, Mister Boswell, you may _not_.' She leans in so they're only inches apart. 'So go on. Talk yer way out o' this one.'

'Well, you _see_,' he begins, twiddling his thumbs round and round, 'when I said I didn't want to kill animals for food…I thought…it was cruel to gnaw through a piece of one…'

'Whereas wrappin' the skin o' one around yer body isn't cruel?'

Joey's eyes dart back and forth. He's trying incredibly hard to think of a clever answer, but she's got him there. He can't _possibly_ think of a credible excuse for this.

'Well, I just…'

'_Yes?'_ She raises her brows as high as they'll go.

'I just…'

'You're an 'ypocrite.'

'Yeah, I'm a…_no!_ No, I'm not, I'm just…would it help if I said I liked wearin' leather_ before_ I became a vegeratian?'

'_No, _because you could easily 'ave gotten rid of all yer gear.'

'But what about my _style?_ It's not easy, you know, lookin' this _amazin'_ all the time!'

Martina just shakes her head fondly. 'You really _are_ ridiculous, you know that?'

'It makes sense in my world.'

'Oh, the Boswell kingdom, you mean?'

'That one, yeah.'

Martina puts her head in her hands and goes on shaking it.

'And what's so wrong with that? Just because our loving, united fam-i-ly may have different ways of looking at life…'

'Oh, yeah?' Martina raises her head from her hands, 'so you _all_ go around protestin' against eatin' meat and then wearin' it instead?'

'Well…no…' Joey says, somewhat guiltily, 'just me…'

'Then you can 'ardly say yer entire family are…'

'Ah, but they all support me in it, though,' Joey interjects, 'they will all stick by me in my decision. That is what we do, you see- we stick together in our unity…'

'Will you stop goin' on about 'unity'?' Martina doesn't mean anything by this, other than that his repetition of the same old 'we Boswells stick together' speeches are getting a tad on the obnoxious side, but the smile immediately falls from Joey's face.

'Oh- sorry, I just…I didn't think. I didn't mean to…bring up your brother or anythin'…'

Oh. It moves her slightly, the fact that he keeps remembering that, is remarkably considerate about it.

'I wasn't even thinkin' about that,' she says truthfully. She hadn't been thinking about it at all; her comment for him to shut up about unity wasn't because it made her think of her own family life, or lack thereof. It'd been more to do with the fact that she's heard the word so many times these past few weeks it's starting to get on her nerves, and she wishes he'd change the record just occasionally, come up with a different excuse for everything.

'Well, I didn't mean to bring it up, all the same,' Joey says, and Martina studies his face, making a note of all the concern she finds there. He pauses, and then puts his hand down on the table. 'I just worry, sometimes, sweetheart. I keep thinkin' about when you first told me about it, and how afterwards you said you were hopeless…'

'No I didn't. I said me _life_ was hopeless.'

'No, you distinctly said that _you_ were hopeless, and I don't want you to ever think that.'

_Why?_ Martina wants to demand, but she doesn't.

'It's hard not ter feel that way, Mister Boswell, when everythin' in me life seems ter follow the same _depressing_ pattern.' She'd been in such a good mood, but suddenly she's fallen back into her usual bleak state. 'I keep makin' the same mistakes, and the same things keep 'appenin' ter me.'

'What mistakes?'

'Well, carin' fer people, for one.' She hadn't intended for it to come out so bluntly, but it does. 'I _still_ 'aven't learned to stop doin' that, and they keep usin' me.'

'Sweetheart,' Joey looks incredibly worried now, 'not everyone in life is like the people who come down the DHSS. It's okay not to trust people there, because you know they're gonna cheat, but outside, not everyone's gonna use you.'

He seems a little offended, as if she's accusing him of planning to use her and hurt her in the same way. Which, she supposes, she actually is.

'You can't stop trustin' everyone just because you've come across a few bad sorts. Just make a distinction between the people who might use you and the nice people in the world.'

'There's no such thing as 'nice people', Mister Boswell. All the nice people are dead.'

'_We're_ nice people.' He takes her hand in his.

'No, we're not.'

'What makes you say that?'

Martina wonders where to begin. 'Well, startin' with meself, I don't trust people, I don't sympathise with people, I take pleasure in sendin' people away from the DH- the DSS with nothin'- and as fer _you_, you…'

'I know, I know, I swindle money, I'm arrogant and obnoxious and I'm a hypocrite because I'm a leather-wearin' vegetarian, I know.' He holds her hand tighter across the table. 'Doesn't make us bad people, really.'

'I don't know about that.'

'Well, perhaps I am, in some ways, but I know you're not, sweetheart.'

'And _how_ would you know?' she asks defiantly.

'Because I wouldn't have wanted to kiss you if you weren't a nice girl.' His voice is suddenly low, and he's mentioning _the incident,_ the way she's been hoping he won't. She frantically racks her brain for something to divert the subject to, but nothing leaps to mind. Her brain has been erased of all other memories.

'You only kissed me because we were drunk,' Martina asserts, finding all she can do to try and save herself is protest.

Joey just scrutinises her for a while, and then takes the hand that's trapped between both of his and presses his lips to it.

'Who says I wouldn't 'ave done it anyway, sweetheart?'

That's all she needs to hear, really, to make all her careful plans, her cleverly constructed boxes for locking her feelings away dissolve. The fact that he might possibly care for her, the fact that perhaps this isn't all just 'friendship' and that the incident wasn't just drunkenness, that he knows what he's doing and has something else in mind, is enough to give her a push, make her lose her balance as she's standing on the line between sanity and something else.

And so Martina falls off the edge of the precipice, into that ravine, that pit trap, that chasm of doom known as 'love.'

And it scares her so much that she gets up, right there and then, and runs out.

* * *

She runs straight into the middle of a downpour. The universe and the elements really _are_ conspiring against her, aren't they? It's as if they're deliberately _trying_ to trap her in situations with Joey Boswell, trying to force her to accept that she's falling in love with him, trying to make her ruin her life by breaking her firm resolution.

She's made a pact with herself never to let anyone play her for a fool again, and yet she's turned herself into the biggest fool there ever was, by walking right into the trap of love. And with _Joey Boswell._ Exactly the sort of person who _would_ take advantage of her, who _would_ give her more anguish and heartbreak. She's being swamped with feelings she doesn't want to have, but at the same time does, and it's all so dangerous and wrong. She has to remember Shifty. She has to remember the lovers before him- they were all the same. She has to remember Roger. She has to remember that all those people, whom she allowed herself to love, led her down a path of heartbreak and loss, and it's a path she's promised herself not to tread anymore.

Martina wants to just walk away, to keep walking until she's walked right off the face of the earth and thus never has to think about anything ever again, but she doesn't. She doesn't take a step in any direction, just stands there like a stunned mullet while the rain assaults her mercilessly, soaking her right through every layer of clothing she's wearing, and while her mind dances around hyperactively, desperately trying to make sense of everything.

It might be one minute or perhaps five, probably however long it takes for Joey to square things with the waiters and pay the bill for the dinner, but he emerges from the building, a silhouette half-obscured by the water that's showering down.

He looks around, spots her, waves. 'Martina!'

She neither flees nor approaches him. She's sort of stuck there, totally unsure what her next move is.

Joey starts toward her, his stride getting quicker until he's jogging, and then he's right in front of her.

'Martina, what's the matter?'

The matter is that she left the restaurant in some unplanned attempt to get away from all this overwhelming…_stuff. _The matter is that she's tried, so many times, to reinforce her walls when she's around Joey Boswell, to stop herself from letting the weakest parts of her show in front of him, and yet here she is, standing in the rain, vulnerable in front of him, looking into his face and _knowing_ she loves him, and it's frightening, it's bloody _terrifying_, it's everything she doesn't want to happen.

'Did I say somethin' in there?' He looks genuinely concerned. 'What did I say, Martina? Did I upset you? Tell me- _please_.'

His words are so gentle that they make her angry. She doesn't want Joey Boswell to be considerate like this. She wants him to be annoying and selfish, so she can justifiably say she wants nothing to do with him, so she can look at him and only feel rage, not these rebellious love-thoughts that keep popping into her brain.

'I just- _can't_,' she says.

'Can't what?'

'I _don't know!_' Martina snaps. 'I just can't do whatever it is we're doin' now!'

'Well, if by 'now' you mean this exact moment, I wholeheartedly agree with you, sunshine. Gettin' drenched is not my cup of tea either, and you look like you're on the verge of comin' down with a nasty cold. Why don't I give you a lift home, get you out o' this rain, eh?'

'That's not what I-' she begins, but there's no point in trying to tell Joey that that's not what she meant, because he knows, is deliberately trying to turn this conversation the way he wants it to go. She shivers, and immediately reprimands her body for betraying her weakness. He'll just crow on about being right now.

'See? I knew I was right!' he crows.

_There. _A very accurate prediction, Martina thinks.

'J-Mister Boswell, I can't just be fr- I mean, I don't think we should…' the words aren't coming out right. She growls in frustration, puts a palm to her forehead. 'I just don't know what I'm doin' anymore.'

That's true enough, at least. She hasn't a clue what she's doing. She's supposed to be avoiding romantic entanglements, and she tells herself that's what she's doing, and yet she keeps going places with him, doing things with him, having conversations with him, _feeling_ things for him.

The rain's been pounding down this entire time, drenching her completely, him less so, probably because the leather he's wearing is water-resistant, and Martina suddenly aches for somewhere warm and dry, longs to be anywhere but here, having to be confronted with all…_this_.

She shivers again.

'Look, we can't have this, can we, sweetheart?' He shrugs off his coat, and she feels its warmth and weight settle about her shoulders.

She purses her lips, has a good mind to throw it off, and into a puddle, just to spite him, but then another shudder runs through her, and the leather smells so nice, and the garment is so comfortable that she can't help (grudgingly) pulling it tighter around her, embracing the relief it gives her from the cold and the wet.

Joey looks far too pleased. 'Much better, isn't it, sunshine?'

She doesn't say it, but it is. It's lovely, but to admit so would be to have lost the game, the one they always seem to be playing, and so she clamps her mouth tightly shut.

'I'll get you home before you freeze to death,' Joey says, putting his hands on her shoulders, guiding her towards his Jag.

And she goes with him, she gets in the car, but the warning bells in her brain are jangling ferociously now.

* * *

The car ride is awkward. Martina sits there, wrapped in the coat, watching raindrops chase each other down the car windows, watching the dark and the wet and the blurs of streetlamps all meld together as Joey steers them away from the restaurant and back towards her apartment building.

She wants to say something to him, but what? What is there to say? Or rather, what part of it does she _choose_ to say to him? She tries to concentrate, tries to get her bearings and work out what to do, but her mind is clouded by her body's more immediate needs for warmth and shelter and her desire to escape it all and soak herself in a hot bath for hours on end. Despite wearing Joey's coat, she's still shivering, the sodden clothes underneath sticking to her skin and making goosebumps appear all over her.

Joey stops the Jag, takes one look at her and wraps his arms tightly around her, sharing some of his warmth, and even though she's supposed to be despising him for invoking these unwanted feelings of love in her, even though, really, she should be working out how to free herself from this unwanted love, something which probably involves never seeing him again, she nestles into him, takes in all the warmth he's offering. It's _nice_, having him hold her. It's been so long since she's been held by anyone, and as well as body heat, she gets a sense of comfort from the embrace, the feeling that everything's going to be okay. She hasn't felt like this in Heaven knows how many years. It's the one part of being in love that she's missed the most, and despite the fact that she knows it can't last, that after it comes all the heartbreak, all the lying, all the pain, and despite the ringing, clanging, clashing warning bells inside her head, she lets herself feel it for just a little while.

It's several minutes before either of them moves.

* * *

She's still in a fog when they get out of the car, and on top of that, the effects of being rained on for at least a solid ten minutes are starting to take their toll, and so when he helps her out the Jag, holds onto her and guides her up the stairs to her front door, she lets him. She doesn't protest when he takes her key from her trembling hand and opens the door for her, and she doesn't complain when he walks her through the flat, pausing to turn on her rattly gas heater as they go, when he helps her into her bedroom and sits her down on the foot of her bed.

Martina's head feels heavy, and though she knows she should be asserting her own independence, insisting she can walk on her own, that she can pull her own shoes off without help, no-one ever does anything for her, and right now she's tired and dazed enough that she's content to hand over control to him for now.

Joey moves behind her, his fingers massaging her neck, and she relaxes into it, letting him take some of the tension from her shoulders.

'Come on,' he retrieves his coat, begins to peel hers away from under it. 'We'd better get you out of these wet things before you catch a chill.'

Martina gratefully lets him take her coat, her cardigan, but when his fingers take hold of the collar of her shirt, she whirls rapidly, shoving him. 'And _what_ do you think you are doing?'

He chuckles at her reaction. 'Calm down, sunshine, I'm just tryin' to help. It's nothin' I haven't seen before, anyway.'

She feels a rush of white-hot rage, and shoots him a hateful glare.

'_Yes it is_,' she growls ferociously, even though it's not true. How dare he say that. She wants to kill him.

Joey just laughs again. 'Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart.'

She banishes him to the other room while she changes. When she comes out, dry and wrapped in a dressing gown, he's holding out a steamy mug for her. She takes it gratefully, takes a sip, the tea burning the back of her throat in a wonderful way, warming her insides.

Joey watches her drink it.

'Don't you have a home and a big, united family to go to?'

'Indeed,' he replies, 'but what sort of gentleman would I be if I didn't make sure you weren't gonna die of pneumonia?'

'I think that's hardly likely.' She sneezes and loses all credibility.

Joey plants himself beside her on the sofa. 'I'm not goin' anywhere.'

'I'm not ill.'

'Not gonna take that risk.'

He puts the back of his hand to her forehead, checking for a temperature.

'I'm not _ill_,' she insists.

'Are you sure about that?'

She's worked out a long reprimand, followed by an order to go home, but what comes out is completely different, and completely out of her control.

'I have a headache.'

'Whereabouts?'

She looks at him. 'In me feet.'

'No, no, sweetheart, that isn't what I meant.' Oh, _he's_ allowed to say that, though, is he? Martina can't be bothered to make a jab at him, though. She's drained.

He takes her face in one hand, holds it while the other traces its way across her forehead. 'Where does it hurt? Here?' He kisses her temple. A jolt goes down her spine, but it's got nothing to do with the headache. She shuts her eyes. And suddenly she knows what's going to happen.

'Here?' Another kiss to the middle of her forehead, between her eyebrows.

His hand moves down, over her nose, over her lips.

'Or here?' He kisses her mouth and this one's longer, slower. Something in the air between them sizzles, and she responds instantaneously, without even thinking, without having to. This isn't like the urgent, messy kisses of last time- he's calculated this, and his mouth moves deliberately against hers, pressure and timing all designed to elicit a reaction from her. Not that it'd take all that much calculation to get one right now, because she wants this kiss, likes it, and it's warm and soft and tender and everything she's craved for years but has never gotten from anyone.

And they stay like that for ages, and her lungs start to ache from need of air, but she doesn't want to break away, not when this is so blissful. Her head becomes faint, she's dizzy from lack of oxygen, and just as she thinks she might just let the sensation take her and pass out he makes the decision for her, pulling back. She gasps and splutters, taking in big lungfuls of air, and it's as she feels blood rush back to her head that it all dawns on her- what she's doing, what she's just done. What she's nearly just done again.

Joey leans back in for another kiss, and she turns her head away.

'No.'

'Martina…'

'_Don't_.' She shuffles away from him to the other side of the sofa, putting a good arm's length between them. 'I can't do this.'

'Why not?' He runs his hand up her arm. 'You want to.'

And that's the problem, of course. Because she does want to. But she can't. Never again, she promised herself. And she means to keep her promise.

'Because…' she struggles to find the words, 'because it's not right! We can't keep goin' on like this just because we need a distraction from everything that's happened to us.'

'Is that all you think this is? A distraction?'

'You miss your wife and yer son, I'm still gettin' over Shifty. _That's_ all it is,' she snaps, and then softens her voice. 'That's all it ever was, and we both know that. You can't keep feelin' sorry fer me- and you can't keep runnin' back to me every time you feel lonely or depressed. Why it was me in the first place I'll never know- I can't even _stand_ you!'

He recoils. She's hurt him, has done it on purpose and for this she feels a twinge of guilt, but he lets go of her arm, moves back from her, so it's worked. Good.

'Okay, Martina,' he says coldly, getting to his feet. 'If that's what you really think.'

He picks his jacket up off the back of the couch and makes for the door. And good riddance. She doesn't need unnecessary emotional entanglements in her life.

'No, wait!' And there she goes, completely ignoring her common sense. She stumbles across the room- she'd run but there's too much mess about- getting to the doorway just as he's stepped out onto the landing.

'Oh. Did you wish to say somethin'?' Joey's voice isn't accommodating.

She leans against the doorframe, trying to steady herself, aware of how feeble she looks right now.

'I didn't mean it.'

'Didn't mean what?'

'When I said I couldn't stand you…' she can't break down now, she has to stay strong as she says this, 'I was lying.'

He raises an eyebrow.

'There _was_ a time when I couldn't- a long, long time,' she laughs half-heartedly, 'but since you've come back something _has_ changed- despite everything I really 'ave grown ter like you.'

His gaze thaws somewhat.

She reaches out, fiddles with one of the buttons on his coat. 'But _this_…I just can't. I can't get involved with you.'

Joey nods. 'Right.'

'I'm…' she's running out of things to say, '…sorry.'

'Right,' Joey says again. 'Okay. I get the picture.'

'No, I don't think you do-' he doesn't understand, doesn't realise that she's given up that side of her life for good. She's made a vow not to care for anyone in that way again, and it's not him, it's the fact that she never wants to make a mess of things again. And a romance with Joey Boswell would, undoubtedly, be one of the messiest messes of all time.

'You've made yourself perfectly clear,' Joey's voice is hard again. 'You don't want to be with me. _Point taken._'

And then he's gone and Martina's left with his last words ringing in her head and a sense of injustice welling up inside her.

_It's not fair. You wouldn't let me explain._ _Typical selfish Boswell._

* * *

The next day she calls him up, and after a few pleas on her part arranges to meet with him, sits him down and explains her predicament with grim finality.

'I'm through with love.'

He doesn't say anything.

'I mean it. I made the decision not ter get attached to anyone. Ever again. And I mean to stick to it. All… _this_…has got to stop.'

He gives a strange, rueful little laugh. 'You can't just _decide_ not to care for anybody. It's one of those things that just happens.'

'I can,' she says, her tone hard. She's had a lot of practise at the heartless, dismissive approach. Her job's prepared her well. 'And I 'ave.'

'Doesn't work like that.'

'Look,' she's frustrated now, grabs hold of his shirt, holds him in place so he'll listen, 'leavin' Shifty was the hardest thing I've ever done. And it shouldn't have been. He was no good for me, and I knew it. But I put meself through years of torture because I'd deluded meself into thinkin' I loved him- thinkin' I _cared._ And lovin' 'im only made it hurt more. It hurt when I stayed, and it hurt when I left. And it _still_ hurts when I think about it.'

She exhales after all that- her speech is almost as long as one of his. 'Gettin' involved with people makes me start to care. And carin' causes pain. I won't do that again.'

He's silent.

'I just won't.'

He's still silent. And then with a movement so swift she's got no time to prepare for it, he's leapt up and grabbed her, swept her into his arms in such a powerful manoeuvre that she can't resist, and he's holding her so tightly she can't struggle, their faces inches apart.

'Now it's your turn to listen, little DHSS lady,' he says, 'don't presume I don't know what's goin' on in your head. I've loved Roxy for nearly _all me adult life._ I've watched her walk away from me more times than I can count on two hands. And I've pleaded with her to come back because I loved her- and that was a stupid mistake, wasn't it, because look where it got me.'

'It's not-' Martina begins, but she doesn't get the rest of her sentence out.

'Now you said last night that what happened between us meant nothin'. Well, I don't know about you, but after lovin' Roxy for so long, havin' her as the centre of me _world_ and then losin' her, vowin', like you did, that there would be no more women ever again- if you can even think of startin' somethin' with someone else after that kind of heartbreak it's not because you're lonely or because you need a distraction. It's because of one reason only- and don't say it hasn't happened to you, too, because I can see it has. You _know_ it has.'

Martina wants to cry, but that would be unlike her. She doesn't cry. She doesn't even know what emotion she would be exhibiting if she did. So she doesn't do it. But she doesn't want to hear the one reason he's mentioned, because she knows what he's going to say, and to hear it would be the destruction of everything she's tried to keep intact- all her strong fortresses of isolation.

'Don't say it, Mister Boswell.'

He grips her tighter- he's angry now. 'I didn't ask to fall in love with you, did I? I tried not to!'

'Oh, and that's supposed to make things better, is it? I feel so much more _reassured_, knowin' that you love me _even when you don't want to_. That makes me _ever _so much more inclined to make a fool of meself for you!'

Their eyes lock. Martina tries to burn through him with blazing hatred, but at the back of her mind she's just hoping he can't see the tears she feels are trying to come.

Joey just looks at her for a moment, then releases his hold on her. 'I'm sorry you feel that way,' he says flatly, and then he turns and leaves.

Martina stares after him, watching the way he jerks the door open and lets it swing carelessly shut, feeling a knot begin to form in her stomach and wondering what she's just done.

* * *

The days pass in a drizzle of misery that seeps down all over her. Martina should be feeling better, she thinks. She tells herself off. She's done the right thing. No sense in feeling bad about _that._ Any relationship with Joey was doomed to fail anyway.

She'd convinced herself she didn't want this, didn't need him, would be better off without him. It's more in keeping with her original plan this way- stay away from the fire and you don't get burnt. She'd thought she'd feel better for making the break before anything happened.

But now he's out of her life, she realises she wants him.

Badly.

The longing churns in her gut like food poisoning, wracking her system. Martina misses him, wants to see his face, hear his laugh, feel his arms round her, his mouth at her ear whispering that it's okay, that they're going to get through this, that everything will be fine.

This is wrong, this is so wrong. She's not supposed to be feeling like this. She's given up love.

Love only leads to loss. She's vowed never to fall in it again- never let herself get hurt or make another Shifty-type mistake. But it's too late. She already has.

She loves Joey Boswell, and she feels the familiar pangs. It's hurting, and she hasn't even succumbed to it.

Seems she can't do anything right. It's painful when she gives in to love, and it's painful when she doesn't. She keeps the relationships that give her the most heartbreak, and when it seems she's got the chance for something better, she turns it down. Either way she's unhappy.

Maybe she should have stayed with Shifty after all. At least then she would have had some certainty, even if it did mean constant depression. At least then nobody else would be caught up in the tangled webs she manages to weave.

No. Nothing's so bad that she should be thinking that. She shakes her head. Just because she's made another mistake doesn't mean she has to think wistfully of her old ones. She's going to stay alone from now on, and this time, she's not going to let herself get into any situation that could warrant a new attachment.

But her mind's in such turmoil, and she's so desperate to stop thinking of Joey, that when, in a few minutes, the phone rings, she makes a very, _very_ stupid decision.

* * *

'Hello, extension 6-4-7.'

'Martina.'

She freezes. Shifty. Why is he phoning her now? It's been months. She'd thought he'd gotten over this by now.

'What do you want?'

'Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for tryin' to throw out your post-office book.'

That was a long time ago, and she points this out.

'I know, but it's been on me _mind_, you see.'

'Well then,' says Martina coldly, 'you've cleared yer conscience, you can 'ang up now.'

'Wait,' he cuts in quickly, before she can put the receiver down on him. She drums her fingers as she waits for him to go on.

'I've missed you.'

Martina frowns.

'Missed _me_, or the _idea_ of me?'

'The real you. Your face, and the way you laugh, and that funny little walk…'

Indignantly: 'I don't have a funny walk.'

'Is that all you can say?'

She sighs. She doesn't like these sorts of games. 'What am I supposed to say?'

'Thing is, Martina- I'm nothin' without you. I'm a shadow of a man.'

She doesn't reply.

'I want you back. I _need_ you back.'

She can believe the need part. Shifty has never tried to cope on his own. He's always leeched off someone else- even in prison he had his meals provided for him.

'You don't need _me_, Shifty. You just need someone ter look after you.'

'You've got me all wrong! You have! Give me another chance, I beg of you! I'll make it up to you, I'll be a better man!'

'_No, _Shifty. I told you. It's over. And this time, it actually is.'

'At least come and meet with me tomorrow. Just to talk it over.' He sounds like a scrounging pup. 'No harm in that, is there?'

_Say no, don't fall into the trap again. Through with love, remember? That's why you turned Joey down, even though you…_

'I'll give you an hour of me time. Don't expect more- and don't expect me to change me mind and take you back.' She can't believe herself, what she's doing. That's how it always happens. The thin end of the wedge. She lets him back in for an hour and all of a sudden he's a permanent fixture again. It's happened so many times, and she _still_ hasn't learned her lesson.

But she doesn't want to think about loving Joey. That's why she's accepted Shifty. That's why she'll go. She's made a hash of things once again- a new mess to add to all the other messes that make up her life, and before she knows it both she and Joey'll get hurt if she doesn't find some way of putting him out of her mind for good.

And this might be a terrible alternative, but at least things will go back to the way they should be, and she'll forget all about these past few weeks with Joey.

* * *

He corners her that afternoon, as she's leaving work. So much for forgetting him.

'I hear you're seein' Shifty tomorrow.'

She refuses to meet his gaze. 'You heard right.' And then she pauses. ' 'ow did you know? I thought yer family excommunicated 'im.'

'I just know,' Joey says unhelpfully, and she rolls her eyes.

'D'you mind if I ask _why_ you plan to injure yourself all over again? I thought that was your whole argument for not seein' me- that you were through with all that. You were savin' yourself from more heartbreak, you said.'

'D'you mind if I ask why it's any of your _business_?' she asks cruelly. 'If I want ter see Shifty, I will- if I love 'im, what's it ter _you?_' She's saying it all to hurt him, to push him away. He needs to forget about her. It's best in the long run.

She pushes past him, heads for the stairs.

Joey grabs hold of her wrist.

'But you _don't_,' he says through his teeth. 'You love _me_- you _know you do._'

Oh, yes. She knows all too well she does. That's the whole problem.

'I never _said_ that.' She lays special stress on the word 'said', because if she utters it like this, it's true. She's never said out loud she loves Joey Boswell.

'You are a _stubborn_ little thing, aren't you?' he snaps. 'You'll never back down and admit somethin', will you?'

'Er- this from _you_!' she scoffs.

'So you'd rather deliberately put yourself back in a situation where you _know_ you'll get hurt than let me care for you?' He's angry, no, he's verging on furious now. 'Well _thank you_, Martina, for your very high opinion of me. It makes me feel so wonderful, knowin' that you think _so little of me_ you'd prefer to live in misery than risk lovin' me.' He drops her hand, turns on his heel and stalks off, his coat billowing behind him as he storms down the stairs.

Martina puts her head in her hands and wishes she was dead.

* * *

She goes to see Shifty anyway, out of sheer stubbornness. Joey was right about that. She _is_ a stubborn little thing. Always has been.

They meet in Sefton Park, a safe sort of place- easy enough to get away from, Martina thinks, and she sits as far away from him in the bench as possible. The look he gives her repulses her. It's smarmily sheepish.

'Go on, then,' she says, 'say what you 'ave ter say, and then crawl back under whatever stone you came from.'

'You should come back, Martina!' he immediately begins. 'You can't be happy on your own, and I know I'm a miserable sod meself…'

If he only knew. She's barely _been_ on her own these days, because of all that time she's wasted with his cousin. She swallows. She doesn't want to think about Joey. Not now. That's why she came here, to get herself distracted.

'As I have said about an 'undred times before,' she says sternly, focussing on the task at hand, on the man in front of her, 'it's yer own fault you're alone. You _drove me_ ter leave you, Shifty, with all yer stealin' and lyin' and other women…'

'It's all because o' me _childhood_,' Shifty insists, as always, 'and anyway, it doesn't matter, I'm a better man, now! This break we've had's given me time to see the error of me ways. I'm goin' straight now, you see. Well, yesterday I had a bit of a joyride in a car, but apart from that, I'm a good man now.'

'Er, it wasn't a break. I was serious when I left you. I meant it.'

'I thought you just needed some time to cool down…'

'If it'd been that, I'd have come back by now. Shifty, it's been _months._ Doesn't that mean anything to you? Doesn't that make you think that just _maybe_ it was fer good?'

'But why should it be for good? I told you, I've _changed_!'

'So you told me the last time, as well- and practically every other time. I've given you too many second chances. I'm not gonna do it again. I'm off.'

She moves to leave, and he grabs hold of her.

'In my defence,' Shifty says, and then rams his mouth against hers.

It's what he always does, because he knows it gets results. She'll have just about made up her mind to be finished with him forever, and he'll ask for his _dying man's last request_, kiss her, and it's always so familiar and so passionate and it hazes up her mind just _so_, and she always, always gives in to him, lets him back into her life.

And when she feels the hot lips clash with hers she remembers just how it feels to have Shifty love her, how it felt at the beginning when he really did, when she really did love him too, when things between them were all right, and she'd occasionally felt a glimmer of hope that there might be some kind of mundane happiness with him. Martina remembers how this feels, and for a second nothing's changed, and she responds the way she always has.

Wait, wait, _wait_.

No, something _has_ changed, and she knows what it is.

Because even though she can feel how it was, what she had, it's not what she wants anymore. That path is well and truly closed-off, and even a kiss can't save it this time. It's too late for her and Shifty, long past too late.

And that's because she's remembering the feel of another pair of lips.

She doesn't want this, doesn't want Shifty's apology kisses that don't mean anything, doesn't want to sink back into that slough of despair that had been her life. She can have better, she realises now. And oh, how she wants _that_.

They've broken apart during this course of thought, and Martina realises her epiphany has come to her in a matter of seconds, though she's gone through what she thinks should be a lengthy process of consideration.

She jumps up, pulls her handbag over her shoulder, and she knows exactly what she's going to do, and how she's going to do it.

'Wait, where are you going?' Shifty whines. 'I thought we were gonna talk about this!'

'I have to talk to someone else now,' Martina says. 'It can't wait.'

'Who?'

Martina remembers back to an earlier conversation of theirs, on the night she went back for her post-office book, and she smirks.

'Me _lover_,' she says, gauging his reaction and loving it. 'You said I had one, and you were right. Yer timin' was just a bit off.'

'What?' says Shifty. _'What?'_

She turns and strides up the path, going as fast as she can without breaking into a run- after all, she's still meant to be a calm and self-possessed DHSS lady, (DSS, she corrects mentally, but takes no notice of herself) and she's not going to give up that image entirely by losing all her inhibitions.

'What?' Shifty continues to call from behind her, his cries fading off into the distance as she gets further and further away from him. 'What?!'

* * *

Come to think of it, it's probably the most stupid idea in the world- to go straight to Kelsall Street and knock on the door of Number Thirty, but that's what she does. She goes right up to the front door and knocks without hesitation. Just a few months ago, she would never have dreamed of doing this, would have had a psychiatric report written for anyone who insinuated that she would voluntarily be going into the lair of the enemy, the Boswell house.

It's absolutely necessary, though. She's just made a life-changing decision- to let Joey Boswell love her, and to love him in return.

All her life she's contented herself with less, with the most pathetic things she can get out of life, because she's never thought she's entitled to more. But now she's seen that she can have more, it's been offered to her on a plate, and she's sent that plate back to the kitchen like some oaf at a restaurant who's realised they've been charged an entrée price for a main course and is too honest to take advantage of it. And she's going to get it back before someone else eats it, so to speak.

She wants better. She just hopes she can still have it.

A woman answers the door, grey hair dyed blonde, glistening eyes and an apron wrapped round her waist. Joey's mother.

'Oh, hello, love,' she says, giving Martina the once-over. 'I'm afraid if you're sellin' anything, you've come to the wrong place- we don't…'

'No,' she cuts her off, feeling rather awkward and embarrassed. She'd been hoping to catch Joey home alone. She can't well make a declaration of love in front of his gawking relatives. 'I…er, is your Joey there? I just wanted a word with him.'

Nellie Boswell's face softens, her smile becoming warmer. 'Oh, you're a friend of Joey's, are you, love? Well come in, come in!'

And Martina steps into the house, feeling like she's going to be sick. This is all going wrong. There weren't supposed to be other people here. She wasn't supposed to have an audience. Ah well- too late to do anything about that now. She's going to do this, regardless.

Billy's slouching on the sofa, the telly on full blast. He glances up, jumps right to his feet when he sees her.

'What are _you_ doin' in our 'ouse?!' He points at her accusingly.

Martina ignores him. She's got bigger fish to fry.

Nellie calls for Joey, and he emerges from the other room, jaw dropping when he sees her standing there.

'Martina,' his voice comes out flat, expressionless. 'You're _here.'_

She nods. 'I need to talk ter you.'

'I think you've already said your piece several times.'

'Please.' Her voice is just as flat as his. He considers, nods, gestures to the door. Nellie and Billy look on in confusion as they walk towards the door and step outside.

There's a bit of a chill, compared to inside the house- well, the Boswells did always use an inordinate amount of heat, didn't they, judging by their bills- and Martina wraps her arms around herself, partly for warmth, partly as a form of self-comfort.

Joey stands in front of her, his face as blank and impassive as she's ever seen it.

'I thought you were with Shifty.'

'I was, but…I changed me mind. I didn't wanna go back to 'im, not after everythin'. And anyway, I 'ad ter…tell you somethin'.'

He crosses one foot over the other. 'Tell me, then.'

'You were right. I do love you.'

Joey blinks at her. 'That it?'

What else is there to say?

'I'm sorry,' she mutters, thinking on the spot, trying to right wrongs as she goes, 'and…and I _do _think highly of you, and everythin' I said, I was just bein' stubborn- you were right about that too.' She's rambling. She doesn't care. She needs to get this out.

Joey doesn't say anything. Perhaps this has all come too late. Martina's filled with despair.

'I just thought you should know, is all.' She turns, take a step away from him, and then in an instant she feels him grab her, wrap his arms around her waist, pull her back and fold her against him.

'Where do you think you're goin'? You can't just say somethin' like that and then disappear!'

She twists around to face him, and notices his eyes are watering. And oh, how she wishes they wouldn't, because they'll make hers start doing likewise in a minute. Her instincts kick in, and she puts one hand up to touch him, running it up and down the side of his face. It feels nice.

It feels right.

'Martina,' Joey says, and though he's still on the verge of tears, his voice is stern, 'you know how I feel about you- I think I've made meself clear enough for you to know that I love you- that you can have me love for as long as you want- but I think we need to clear some things up, sweetheart.'

She nods, a little fearful of what he might say, but reassured in the fact that he's just, to use his own words, offered her his love _for as long as she wants it_. Bearing that in mind, he surely can't be turning her down. She listens with bated breath.

'First of all,' he pushes her hair off her face, kisses her forehead, 'are you willin' to take a chance on me- properly? None o' this pretendin' you're finished with love and keepin' people at arm's length rubbish-will you accept that if you're with me, we're together, and it's real- it's _official_?'

Martina shuts her eyes. This is what she's dreaded most of all- making her love official, proclaiming it out loud. It would be so much easier to pretend it wasn't happening, and she knows that if she accepts this now, she's got to be prepared for an intense connection, and possibly intense heartbreak at the end of it, too. It's everything she's been trying to avoid. But she wants it, really, she does.

'_Yes_,' she whispers with feeling. 'I wouldn't be 'ere if I wasn't, would I, Mister Boswell?'

Joey makes a _hmm_ noise. 'Second, sweetheart, no more of this _Mister Boswell_ stuff- we're not in the DHSS now, are we?'

'DSS,' Martina corrects, but he takes no notice. No-one does. No-one ever does. And who even cares?

'Me name is _Joey_- and if I do say so meself, it's a fantastic name.'

She rolls her eyes. 'Typical Boswell ego.'

'Oh, shush about my _ego_, sweetheart. Come here.' He kisses her, and this time she doesn't try to stop him, this time there are no warning signs going off in her head- it's just pure bliss. She lets her mind detach and drift away from the rest of her, completely losing herself in the feeling of being submerged in love, submerged in _Joey's_ love, in the warm happiness that wells up inside her.

Martina hears footsteps, but she's too wrapped up in the kiss to bother looking round.

'Eh, Joey,' comes Billy's voice, 'I came to see what was taking you so…_aaargh!_ What are you doin'?! You're ruinin' me _eyes_, you are!' And with a holler, he runs back into the house, shouting _MAM! _so loudly the entire street is likely to come running.

Joey breaks away, holding in a snigger. His eyes are no longer teary, but glinting with a mischief she knows all too well.

'Think we may 'ave traumatised him,' he says, and Martina snickers.

They laugh for a minute or two, then Joey's face grows serious. He puts a hand on either side of her head and kisses her again, and Martina lets him, is quite _happy_ to. And Martina's _never_ happy. Something must be at work here.

When they break apart, they wrap their arms round each other and stand like that on the street, ignoring the stray cars that go past, ignoring the fact that Billy's come back out to stand in the doorway and is gaping, ignoring everything except each other, the two of them.

Martina had made a firm decision. Never, ever fall in love again. And she'd planned to stick by this resolution no matter what.

She's glad now she didn't.

Whether she'll still be glad in a year's time from now, in a month's time from now, even in a day's time from now remains to be seen. There are so many things that could go wrong.

But right now she couldn't bloody care less.

She wraps her arms more tightly around him, rests her head against his collarbone. 'I love you...Joey.'

'Tell me that just one more time,' Joey says.

'I love you,' she repeats. And she does. And it makes her happy to say so.

I love you.

And at the end of the day, she supposes that's all that matters.

_I love you_.

* * *

**Annnnd she's done. Finally. Apart from the stuff about Martina and her brother, which I'm publishing separately, and a possible Belle and Davey fic.**

**Anyway, this was a fun experiment, but I'm glad it's finished, and that (hopefully) all the loose ends are tied up and making sense. Yeah, I know, the ending is incredibly cheesy. Ah well.  
**

**I was also a bit worried about Joey turning up in a lot of places, that he'd look a bit creepy/stalkery, and I didn't want that, I just wanted him to look friendly and annoying. I really hope I pulled that off :P**


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